Not This Droid

Overcoming Perversity

2011-11-06T00:48:00.004+03:00

Or not.

I have a habit of getting bitten by my Muse during days significant in the Islamic calender I think. After so many months of writer's block, I thought I shouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

It's a little trite. More than a little. But god, I'm so fucking rusty. I didn't think I had it in me to put words together anymore. So, there's that.

Eyes

Seduction is in the eyes. I used to think this was an urban myth, some silly story kept in circulation by the overly romantic. Until.

It was a party and I was having a good time. She was a friend of a friend and I didn't pay her any mind. She was funny and cute but it was a party and I was having a good time. Wait. I lied. So I noticed her. But we were joking and flirting, nothing serious, until her gaze caught mine. Caught, like a butterfly in a jar. I couldn't look away. Until I could.

I was flustered. My breath had caught for that brief moment. But I shrugged it off. There's nothing there, nothing. And I convinced myself I'd imagined it. Laughed louder and talked more and it was forgotten. Until she passed me the bottle and even though it was chilled I could have sworn that I could feel the warmth of her fingers on it still. Or maybe it was my fingers lingering on hers since she's caught my gaze again. This time it was worse. Her eyes were hotter, and I felt I was ablaze with want. I looked away again, terrified. Got up, went to splash water on my face, try to chase that heat away. I looked in the mirror, no one else could tell I was blushing. I hoped.

I came back to a room full of raucous laughter. The moment was gone. I was a little disappointed and a lot relieved. When I came back, I took a seat closer to her. The more fool I. I couldn't help it. I itched for her now. Fuck that, I burned. I fell winded, like I'd been running. Everyone could tell, I was sure of it. I flushed to think of their eyes on me, but I had eyes only for her. She looked at me again, and smirked. This time I didn't look away.

Was I making a fool of myself? Probably. Too much influence on my system. The only courage I had was liquid. But my body was aflame. That look in her eyes, it made me forget to be sensible, if I ever was. I wanted her. I was hoping that she wanted me too. So I held her gaze, and walked out of the room, heart pounding.

With that smirk still on her face, she followed me out.

Guest Author: Sweat

2011-02-12T13:18:00.003+03:00

I might be suffering a prolonged bout of writer's block, but I would never deny you fiction.

My friend Sarah, whose writing I enjoy & respect recently wrote a little piece of fiction, and I was lucky enough for her to let me host in on my blog. Enjoy guys, I know I did.

-DeeDee

Sweat

"He wasn't my first love. He wasn't even my second." I said. I took a long drag from my cigarette, forgetting I had quit the night before.

"What was he then?" He said. He paused, then asked "Did you even love him ?" His voice contained... something. Something unfamiliar I couldn't figure out.

"Of course I loved him. If I didn't do you think I would still be here, doing this with you, all in an effort to try and get over him? To try and drown out the sound of his laughter with the sound of your breathing?"

"I guess not," He said. "Why him? What was it about him? Why can't you just forget him?"

I sighed. "I don't know. I don't know where to start. It's difficult to talk about, I don't know how to explain him to other people."

"Tell me how you met, and we'll go from there" He said.

"But I thought we were going to..." I said.

He dismissed my question with a careless gesture. "Don't worry about that now, we can get to it later."

I brushed my hair out of my eyes, leaned back, and remembered.

It was really hot that summer. The heat had flowed in thick waves of frustration. On a whim, and in need for some change, I had gotten bangs that week. They would hang there, dark and heavy framing my eyes. Looking back, I suppose they were a social canopy of sorts, an ebony barrier meant to intimidate rather than intrigue. They had looked out of place and uninviting between a sea of highlights and curls, but I liked them and that was all that mattered. The only problem is that they would get in my eyes, and so I'd have to push them away every few minutes. That's when I first saw him. I wasn't even looking, and yet there he was.

He was your typical guy. Nothing about him caught my eye, but as these things happen, our gazes had met and it had felt like the only introduction we needed. I suppose I'd held his gaze for a moment too long, because I knew felt something there for a moment. I like to think we both had. Some cosmic connection had crept in underneath my clothes and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Just like that, I felt light-headed. Not thinking anything of it, I pushed my bangs out of my eyes for the last time that day and made my way home.

"So that's how we met." I said.

"But that doesn't count! You barely glanced at each other, you didn't even speak!" He protested, confused.

I could sense he felt some sort of betrayal. He had been expecting a passionate exchange of sorts, some sort sexual tension that sparked off this love affair. He wanted to hear me tell him it was extraordinary, to ease his own mind. He needed to know that I was hung up over something magnificent, something he couldn't dismiss. What he needed, I couldn't offer.

I shrugged "Bad beginnings make for happy endings, I guess." I paused. "Well sort of. Not in this case, but you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," He said.

End of Part 1

- Sarah

Letter of Apology

2010-11-20T18:36:00.002+03:00

This isn't a story. And it's not easy for me to tell. This is something I carry with me. It wasn't easy to write because it was pretty personal. I would send it to the person herself but.. if someone reads this and it helps them realize how hurtful they can be, then I'll be glad. It's so easy to be cruel when you're part of a group. But that doesn't make it any more acceptable.

Apology

Here's the thing. I was bullied as a child. But that's not the story. That story is too easy to tell. Covered in a patina of humor and nostalgia, that story is kind of a fun story. It's a story I pull out and tell during lulls in dinner conversation.

The story is that I was a bully.

I never spent very long at a school. Grade school wasn't particularly special. It flew by in a haze of jump rope, school yard taunts, oddball teachers, and kool-aide. At the beginning of middle school, my parents, in their infinite wisdom decided to move me somewhere new. Awkward and new, I didn't fit in very well. I never managed to make any real friends and I disliked most of the kids around me. Not to be outdone, most of them disliked me too. I was subjected to some impersonal bullying and petty little taunts. I had some people I was friendly with, I had some people I was unfriendly with... it wasn't really a big deal. Then I moved again.

I moved to smaller school where everyone seemed to be the same. Determined that I wouldn't repeat my last experience I decided to be friends with *everybody*. Except this one girl. Because there's always a girl in these stories. If I wasn't that girl, then someone had to be, right?
The girl wasn't our friend. The girl wasn't *any body's* friend. She was different you see. She didn't understand us and we didn't understand her. If I was a better person, I would have felt a sense of kinship for this girl who could not manage to belong. That wasn't the case.

I hated this girl. The girl who did nothing but be herself. This girl had so much pressure bearing down on her. Daughter of a teacher, new to the school, different, afraid.. we could have been friends I think, if I was a better person. But you see everyone else hated her too. So why should I be different?

I wasn't. Except sometimes I think I was more cruel than anyone. I tortured this girl. I snubbed her, I mocked her, I called her names.. one time I even raised my hand to her in anger. I wish I could say I felt but about it but.. the more horrible I was to her, the better I felt. You see, I said to myself, she deserves it. She's too strange, too different, she doesn't belong with us. After all, everyone else was doing it.

The only person I know who was smart enough and brave enough to say no was my friend, M. She refused to judge the girl for being something other. She was kind to her. Often she would tell us to lay off the girl. M couldn't stop us though, no one could. I wish someone had.

I will always regret my cruelty to that girl. Who was brave enough to keep being herself through three years of torture. Who tried her hardest not to let us break her. I hope we didn't break her.
The story could end here, with me carrying these regrets, wondering what happened to the girl I bullied. But we live in a digital age. We live in the era of facebook and twitter. Every life you touched will find a way back to you.

The girl, she got back in touch with me a while back. She was friendly and sweet to me. She's happily married with kids. She seems well adjusted. We've never really spoken of those years we spent in the same school. I've never asked her to forgive me. I don't think I have the right. But I will apologize.

A? I'm sorry. I hope you don't carry any pain from those years. I hope you know that I regret every horrible thing I said or did to you. I hope you're happy, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more.

Bad Romance

2010-11-13T21:31:00.007+03:00

Disclaimer: I don't know that I like this really. It was simmering for a while then it kind of died in production. It feels a bit like a place holder just because I didn't want to get out of the habit of weekly posts. For some reason I'm finding the male psyche particularly inaccessible tonight.

Mild heterosexual content. Practically G-rated. Romantic? Atypical male pov. I guess.

Romance

She's the kind of girl who'll always take that first sip of coffee too soon, no matter how many times it burns her tongue. She can't hold on to patience. Besides, she tells him, it's worth it. That's how she is.. grabbing every moment and living it like it's special. Ordinary everyday things like coffee and newspapers and walking across the yard. She wants to touch, taste, smell, hear, see everything. She tells him she wants to eat sunlight. Sometimes he's afraid she'll devour him whole. Oddly enough, he's not afraid.

He once told her she was the most adventurous girl he knew. She laughed and shook her head. I'm not though. I'm not anything really. I like living, that's true but sometimes I'm very boring. I like the fact that I'm pretty ordinary. I've got.. you know... She waved her hands in an all-compassing gesture that could have meant anything from chaos theory to dish washing... layers.

You're like an onion. Because he was a moron. But she only looked at him fondly and told him he didn't really have a way with words tonight. Then she removed his palm from his face, touched her fingers to her lips, then to his cheekbone. I like it.

The thing is, he could see his future in her. Every moment stretched into forever. It wasn't just love. It was all his years with her laid out before him. He could see the house and the children and the life they'd have. With all it's ups and downs, its joy its stifling domesticity even the fights they'd sometimes have. He couldn't believe how much he wanted it. Only with her. She didn't know it yet but he's already committed to her.

Still, it was almost like he couldn't tell her. A thousand fathers, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, friends stood in his way. That wasn't what guys did. Endless generations of men in his head demanded to know what kind of pansy he was. Maybe he wanted to give her one of his little handbags, balls included.

You're wrong he told them. You've always been wrong. He was glad that he's never really listened to them. With some guys it took an extraordinary moment to shove those voices down, and there were always those who never managed to do it. Maybe he wasn't quite as good as the guys who never heard that crap from their selves to begin with, but he was proud of the fact that he'd never bought into it. Not once in his life.

He caught her wrist before she could dance away and told her. She smiled with delight and said it back.

I love you.

Playing Favorites

2010-11-06T22:22:00.006+03:00

Disclaimer: Pure smut. Seriously, this is porn with absolutely no redeeming value whatsoever. You have been warned. I wash my hands of this. Seriously. It's just wrong. If you're not legal and I find out you read this I will personally find you and kick your ass. Not in a good way.

Favorite

Sometimes we'll fuck in the daytime, warm and lazy in our unmade bed while the golden afternoon sun shines in through the open window. Curled up together exchanging whispered endearments... sex is slow and sweet as molasses. Our lips touching and our limbs intertwined I can't tell where she ends and I begin as her fingers move inside of me. My heart feels full to exploding with all I feel for her and I know that I have nothing to hide. I love you I tell her. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. I whisper it over and over as my lips brush over her mouth, her nose, her cheekbone. I can't get enough of those moments. Making love.. it sounds so trite, so clichéd but at that moment, I don't care. There's nothing quite like it. It's beautiful. But it's not my favorite thing.

Sometimes it happens that we're out... and we can't resist the urge. Surrounded by bodies and music, I whisper in her ear, I want you. We'll scramble out the back, into the dark alley. It might be stupid but I feel like I'll die if I can't have her right there. I push her up against the wall, push her collar aside, bite down on knotted muscle and then lick and kiss the pain away, an apology of sorts. I palm her breast and push her dress up, grind my thigh against her. Theres nothing but damp thin cotton between my skin and her pussy. I press harder as she rubs herself against me. Her fingers dig into my skin as she grabs my shoulder. Harder she grunts, and I give it to her. I laugh, I'm so turned on but this is fucking crazy. It's dark and there's no one near but anyone can walk in. I tell her that and it turns her on even more. Fuck but she's hot. Gasping harshly, she comes right there with the brick wall digging into her back. It's the wildest thing we've ever done, but it's not my favorite.

She loves to be in control and she loves to force me out of it. She loves to drive me out of my mind. She's slowly, purposely, driving me crazy. I don't know how long it's been but it feels like forever. Her wicked fingers and her sinful mouth bring me to the edge over and over again. I'm drenched in sweat and every muscle in my body is rigid with tension. It's been too long, so much.. too much. Every single fucking time I think this is the time, she draws away and leaves me grasping at the feeling she's denying me flees with her touch. The sheets are starting to feel like sandpaper against my skin. Her touch is torture, too much and not enough, never enough. I curse her name with every ragged breath. And still she denies me. I feel like I've been crying, begging, pleading for ever but every time I think she'll relent she proves that her heart is made of fucking stone the cunt. My breath is harsh to my own ears and I can hear my heart pounding. I fucking hate her, why won't she just give me what I need? I promise her anything, everything if she'll just let me come. But she won't, she'll only let me when she's good and ready. When I've lost every shred of sanity. My fingers scrabble at the sheets, simultaneously wanting contact and shying away from feeling. I can't anymore. I'm seconds from pushing her away and taking matters into my own hands. I just can't take anymore. I can't. Just when I think I'm about to break, just when I think I'm about to scream, it hits me. She finally letting me find my release. I am blindsided by my orgasm. I don't know who or what I am anymore. All I know is pleasure, white hot sliding through me. It's the most intense thing I've ever felt.

I'm wrung out, barely able to lift me head as she lays a gentle, almost chaste kiss on my lips. Good? She asks. I smile and nuzzle her face. She always knows how to give me exactly what I crave. And that? That's my favorite thing

Now Playing: Mercy - Duffy

(Body) Parts

2010-10-30T23:04:00.007+03:00

Author's Note: So I'm feeling self indulgent and I though I would indulge in some light-hearted feel-good fiction for once. So I came up with this. Just over 500 words. Seriously self-indulgent. Child of my desire to write, some interesting DMs on Twitter over the last couple of days and one lovely fan who I didn't want to wait anymore (Not the same person). You have been warned.

Parts

It started with a hand. Thrust out of her car, lazily riding the currents as she drove by. You smile, but god what a hand. Strong mobile wrist wrapped in a distinctive cuff, tough but delicate... I was a little in love with that cuff. Her thumb ring flashed in the morning sun and I wanted to take the pad of that finger into my mouth and ever so gently bite down, let her know I was there. Those nimble fingers rode nothing but air and I wished I could ride them instead. Oh, it was just a hand... if just was a word that could be said about that hand. A hand that made a heart stutter for just a second. Nothing even need be said about the capable looking forearm, with the sleeve rolled up to just above the elbow. How an elbow can be a such tease I can not know.

Then came the jaw.. different day, same cuff, same hand. A flash of determination and excellent bone structure as she walked into my store. This book she asked, do you carry it. I knew I didn't but I couldn't let her go just like that. The books may be used but they're well loved and I know them all just like any proper mother would, not considering that I'd idly wanted it for myself for quite some time. Still I couldn't let her go, I couldn't find it in my heart. So I typed in names and titles and numbers; offered her conversation and options while that jaw made its frustration clear. It softened just a little at the offer of coffee. I wanted to put my fingers there and touch my lips to the edge. Instead I bit my tongue and stole glance from beneath my lowered lashes. Before my ravenous eyes could map every line and curve of her face, I had to admit defeat. I called around but a copy couldn't be bought for love or money. The jaw clenched and unclenched, she could not be swayed from her search I thought. I promised to keep an eye out, contact her if I found it. I could not find it in my heart to turn that face away for good.

That might have been that if it wasn't for the dimple. She shrugged and smiled and apologized for her abruptness, and I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd tried. I shouldn't be doing this I said but I find myself unable to say no to you. I have a friend, he deals in books as well. I can't call him, he's been away for days. If anyone can hunt it down I know he can. I asked him for it myself and he promised to deliver in a few days time. I couldn't help a little frown. I wondered if she would smile at him like that as well. Instead she gifted me with another. Maybe I could pick it up from you instead. I looked down at the words she had scrawled down. But his store is much closer to you than mine. Her teeth flashed as she turned up one shoulder and told me she knew, she saw me there one time.

Now Playing: So Happy I Could Die - Lady GaGa (;*)

Pathetic

2010-04-19T22:13:00.005+03:00

So I thought I'd try my hand at writing hetero fiction. Then I decided in for a penny, in for a pound. I'll right het from a male perspective. Not just any male. A stereotypical misguided douchebag. You think my bias is showing? (I know that's not all you guys out there, but probably what I'd be if I was born with a Y chromosome, half my male relatives, and 40% of my male friends.)

Anyway....

She said, "Listen, you're not really my type but I'm horny, you're available, and I have an oral fixation. So how about I suck your cock."

That's when he knew he hit the fucking jackpot.

She tells him that even though he can be a stupid fuck sometimes, he's still her friend and she doesn't want sex to fuck that up. She asks him if he's going to be weird about it.

She's obviously crazy about him.

That's what girls do, you know. They play mind games. They pretend they don't want to marry you and have your babies so that you'll want to marry them and impregnate them and shit.

She is so obvious it's a little sad.

She pretends that she doesn't mind when he fucks other girls when he tells her about it. She even asks when she's feeling particularly friendly. "Are you still seeing that girl from that party?"

She's pretending of course. Why else would she not fuck anybody else but him?

He asks her that and she laughs and asks him why he'd think that. He tells her he can tell, that he's the only one she's been with. She looks a little nervous, like maybe she's afraid he'll know that she's in love with him. She asks again if he's going to get weird about it. He bets she's waiting to get him to propose or some shit. Probably has the dress all picked out.

She tells him that there are a couple of guys, but she's not serious about anyone. She's lying of course. Wants him to get jealous. Trap him into something he's not ready for. Fucking girls.

So of course he's when she sits you down and tell him she can't be fucking around with him anymore. She met this guy, thinks he's special. Has he been reading the signals wrong? Is he on a completely different page? Fuck it, she's probably making shit up to get him to commit. Fat fucking chance. She's the one who's in love with him. After all, girls can't separate sex and feelings, they're just not built that way. Scientific goddamn fact.

So he tells her fine, yeah, what the fuck do es he care if she wants to break things off. He's got dozens of girls he could fuck instead. Hundreds even. She looks worried for a second, probably scared that her little plan isn't working. What does she expect, him to get down on one knee and declare his undying love? Fat fucking chance.

So he waits for her to come crawling back to him, but it's a month or so before he sees her again, but for the occasional 'friendly' facebook shit. He sese her at a party once, wrapped around some dude. He wonders how she knew he's be there, and how she got the poor shmuck to play her boyfriend. All that effort to get into his head with her little mind games.

So he avoids her. The traitorous bitch. Trying her best to break his heart.

He sees it a few months down the line. An honest to God goddamn engagement announcement. He can't believe the lengths she would go to, just to get him to fucking commit.

She's probably going to marry that poor bastard. Trap him into a life of monogamy. Waking up to her face every morning. Pretending to be in love with the sucker. Kissing him all open mouthed and dirty like a fucking whore. He bets that bastards can't get her breath to hitch just the right way when he fucks her just right. He bets the fucker's got a tiny dick. Looks like he has a small dick. She's settling for a guy with a small dick who doesn't even know how to fuck her right, all in an attempt to get over him.

Pathetic.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

Sometimes, It's Sex

2009-11-19T16:31:00.006+03:00

So here's a little piece of fiction that turned out a let less smutty than anticipated. You plan for the sex and the plot just blindsides you I guess.

Usual Disclaimers Apply: Here be Lesbians.

Fresh out of the coldest shower I could manage, I pick up a pair of fresh cotton panties and slip them on. I almost put on a t-shirt but think better of it. It’s a typical summer night in Beirut, the air so heavy it feels like I’m breathing underwater. I can practically feel the nonexistent material clinging to the small of my back.

I walk into the bedroom, the whirring of the electric fan loud as it makes valiant effort to cool the room. No dice. I glance at the bed, Lara spread out on top of it, her long black hair fanned out around her head, as if spread out to catch the last of the coolness from the sheets. She makes a pretty picture, cigarette held gently between fingers that made me very happy just a few minutes ago. I think of joining her there, briefly, but I don’t.

Too hot. It’s too hot for snuggling, too hot even for sex. I’ve gotten too used to the omnipresence of air-conditioning back home. As much as I’ve missed sex with my girlfriend, I don’t think I can manage any more of it tonight.

Even as I’m thinking this, my feet take me closer to the bed. Sometimes it feels like she’s my true north, and no matter how hard I try to resist, I end up making my way towards her.

Despite my desire to fall onto the sheets and put my mouth to hers, I only steal a cigarette before making my way to the armchair across the room. I sprawl out, trying to take advantage of the quickly disappearing relief of the cool fabric.

I take a quick drag of smoke before speaking. “So,” I say, “You want to tell me why nearly everyone tonight was treating me as if I was made out of china?”

“Because the entire fucking community is made up of ignorant gossips that need to learn to mind their own business?” Her words may be harsh, but they seem to carry more amusement that anger.

“Care to elaborate?” Our friends are a pretty tight knit group, and information travels fast. Lara is not a fan of the gossip mill, but evolved girlfriend or not, I hate being out of the loop.

“Word is” she says without preamble, “I’m cheating on you.”

“And why would anyone think that?”

“Apparently if someone walks in and sees you face down on some girl’s vagina, it means you’re being unfaithful.”

“Oh?” I ask, shifting slightly, already slightly turned on by the image of my girlfriend lying between the phantom girl's thighs.

“Mmm,” Lara grins, “She was so juicy. Like eating out a peach.”

And just like that it's as if my last orgasm was years away. “Tell me about her?”

Lara pauses, and gives me a look. I wonder how I look to her... breasts bared, fingers of my left hand curling around the waist of my bright blue cotton panties, already inching them down.

Apparently, I look like a pervert who can't have a serious conversation. “… I know that you have a more or less one track mind when we can spend time together, but can we get back to the whole issue of everyone thinks I’m cheating you thing?”

Definitely an oversexed pervert then. I blow out a frustrated breath. “Me?! You started it, goddamn fucking tease,” I say without much heat. I hope.

“Heh, I know. Sorry couldn’t resist. I’ll tell you later, I promise. So anyway, that’s why…”

“You bet your fucking ass you’re finishing this. Can’t believe you bring that up and then you stop like that.” I am no a fan of sexual frustration. Not when I haven't seen my girlfriend for three very long months.

“Jenna!” If it wasn’t so hot she’s probably get up and smack me on the head. “Focus!”

“OK,” I say, “Right. So. Cheating.” Sex. Sex. Sexsexsex.

“Yes. Cheating. Remember when Jesse was rooming with me before she left for that job in Montreal?”

“Vaguely?”

“Yeah well. One night I thought she’d gone up to Zahle to visit her family, but then she had something come up in town she forgot to tell me about.”

“And she walked in on you with Peach Girl.”

“And she walked in on me with Peach Girl.”

“And you didn’t explain that I was cool with it why exactly?”

“I don’t even know, I mean she left right away. And by the next day I saw her and she’d already told Lulu and Sara. Lulu had told Tanya and Tanya told Rana, and it just blew up. And they assumed, which pissed me off so much that I didn’t deny it, because I don’t need to defend myself to them like some sort of criminal.”

“Fuck.” The problem with being in such a close community is that things never stay private for long. “When was this?”

“Two months ago?”

“And you haven’t told me why exactly?” If I know my friends, they probably haven’t been very warm to Lara since then. I love them to death but the do close ranks ridiculously quickly.

“Because there’s nothing much you could have done from Kuwait? Because you’re miserable there as it is and I didn’t want to add to that? Because however they choose to interpret my actions, it only matters to me that you know what I’m about?”

I’m quiet, looking at my suitcase, contents strewn out like the guts of an amateur sacrifice to the Gods of Long-Distance Relationships. I got here today and in two weeks I’ll be leaving again. It’s going to be the longest we’ve spent together in more than a year. Usually it’s a spare weekend stolen away every few months. Three years already, and god knows how many more to come. It’s not easy. For me or for her. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” It’s abrupt, but definitely heartfelt.

I sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if we both wouldn’t be happier if..”

“Fuck you.” She’s more frustrated than angry when she interrupts me, “I told you a thousand times. I don’t care about easy. I care that we’re together. You and me. That’s what matters. Two days, two weeks, two years, two life times, I’ll take whatever I can get with you. And soon you’ll have enough saved up for that masters in Vancouver. And I can finally take that job. My parents are already there, only two hours away, and they can’t wait. Hell, they probably love you more than they love me anyway. You’re saying you want to disappoint them?”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “No?” God forbid I disappoint Lara’s *parents*. That’s my baby. Always deflecting with other people.

“Good.” She nods, as if it’s all settled. “So now that’s all over, let’s fuck.”

If she thinks that she can distract me from the issue as easily as that she’s delusional. There a lot of things we need to work out, because I don’t want to imagine what would happen to us if we let these things fester. And I need to have a talk with my friends because our relationship is our business. And if I’m OK (more than OK) with Lara fucking other girls when I’m away then they’re going to learn to be OK with it as well. Oh we are going to talk. First thing in the morning. After all… “How can I resist such a pretty offer?”

What I'm Listening to Right Now: متيم - راشد الماجد

It's Not Sex

2009-11-09T23:46:00.004+03:00

It's not sex I miss. You can't miss what you never had, not really. What I miss is the intimacy. The easy physical affection. I miss touching. I miss hugging. I miss kissing.

Twenty days, only twenty days of being around only other LGBT women, and it's more real than an entire lifetime of everything else. Twenty days of breathing easy. Twenty days of honesty. Twenty days of belonging. Twenty days of joy.

Three months since I've been back in my real life, but I am no longer able to reconcile myself to the lie. Three months of acting straight. Three months of being back in the closet. Three months of being bereft of touch.

In Lebanon, Inever went long without the someone's arms slipped around me, offering love and comfort. Say what you will about the Community, they are not stingy in their physical affection. I never knew how tactile a person I was until I had all that at my fingertips. Often literally so.

These girls, my girls, their love, it overwhelms. In our space, there are no barriers. At first it seemed so strange, everyone climbing under, over, and onto one another. I was hesitant at first. For a few seconds. But I quickly fell under the spell of their complete openness and generosity in their affection. I had no idea how starved I was for all of it until I could have my fill. I never knew there was someplace I could belong. But like Frost says, Nothing gold can stay.

So I came back to Kuwait. So Eden sank to grief. Once again I am without the comfort of loving arms.

What I'm Listening To Right Now: Reelin' in the Years - Steely Dan

Night Time Rituals

2009-05-14T23:01:00.003+03:00

I’m not in love with her, that I know. But she draws me like no other, and I am certainly in love with the idea of being in love with her.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If at fifteen I was thinner, taller, beautiful, desirable. What would it have been like if I had known I was gay? That she was gay. If I had known how much I would want her. If I had taken the chance. If I had the courage to speak to her. If I had smiled and put my fingers at her wrist. If I had been bold enough to casually brush her hip with mine. If I hadn't seen her just that one time, and unaware, left her in my subconscious biding her time.

What if we were high school sweethearts? If I had wanted her and she had wanted me. If I had told, asked, begged, pleaded, gotten down on bended knee. If I had asked her in written word, and touch, in song, in the way I looked at her. I wish that I had looked at her.

What if we were in love? What if hers were the first lips put to mine? If she had been the first one inside of me, her fingers tentative at first, her brow drawn as I lay back, one hand resting on her shoulder, fingers splayed, my mouth slack in surprise, letting out a cry of pleasurepain. If I had worshiped at the altar of her divinity, on my knees, face buried in her heat, one of her heels digging into the small of my back.

What if she had left me for that school so far away, and made me cry hot tears into my pillow, unable to tell anyone, terrified that it was for good? What if she stayed true to me as I pined for her? Seen her in every corner, every curve, every ray of light. Her eyes, her smile, that quirk of amusement at the corner of her mouth?

What if she came back to me and made my heart swell? What if she had known my friends, my arm loose around her waist, confident that she was mine? If I had melted in to her, bracketed by her legs, my back to her chest, acting extra coupley on movie night. If I had fallen asleep in her arms after going at it hot and dirty back in her bed, only to start awake terrified: what time is it, my parents are probably wondering where I am?

Instead I spoke to her years after that first glance. Instead she’s just a face on the computer screen, and has probably forgotten all about that awkward meeting.

Our could-bes are my bedtime stories, many a night they sing me to sleep. I am not in love with her, but I’m very much in love with the idea of being in love with her.

Credit where credit is due, I was inspired, love-crumbs notwithstanding:

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

-ee cummings

Though I Have No Camera

2009-04-18T20:00:00.004+03:00

My day consists of a few dozen photographs. Sometimes I feel like an uninvested observer, fascinated by the boring details of my life, taking snapshots to document the ordinary. A pair of pale gold ballerina flats carelessly abandoned in the middle of my bedroom floor. Click. The casual intimacy of my unmade bed telling a story far more interesting than the truth of my restless sleep. Click. The view from my windshield of the cars gently gleaming before me as I idle at a traffic light. Click.

Most days, The City (it’s the only city we have) comes up like a revelation as I make my way back home from Shuwiakh on the road that takes you to the Sheraton Roundabout. The City usually breaks up from the flatness of the skyline like a tiny copse of trees and grows larger until it swallows me up. But some days the sky has other ideas. Some days it is The City that is swallowed by the sky, heavy with yellow dust.

Dusty days usually cause me a lot of grief, but on one particular day I lay safe in the arms of the antihistamines I rarely remember to take. On that particular day, free of stuffiness and itchiness and other things best left unmentioned, I noticed that the desert had swallowed up my metropolitan oasis of metal and steel.

Instead of the old familiar face greeting me at our usual place, I was by met emptiness beckoning me closer, and so I drove on. As I approached, buildings began to loom out one by one, shrouded in an unfamiliar cloak of gritty mystery. Instead of the usual merry group, each was a hulking monolith of individuality.

Odd, how an ordinary turn of weather had changed the friendly face of my city into something alien. It seemed everything was muffled, darker. It seemed to me like every structure carried a sort of dull post-apocalyptic sheen, left all alone and condemned to a destiny of solitude. It reminded of a short burst of fiction I once wrote in my original blog.

Some bits and pieces of that recently remembered something...

"We built the world, height upon height, we rose up reaching for the sky. We thought we could leave the mess, the grit and dirt of humanity behind. Reaching out to the clean expanse of sky, dirtying it as we reached... Then they left us here, living in the shadows of what they have wrought, mere skeletons now. Left us with hollow husks, laying under this blotted out sun. What a legacy they’ve left us, cadavers, monoliths, useless, a tribute to a pointless race whose outcome has been lost to time."

As I often do, I wished the I did in fact have a camera.

Er… perhaps I was feeling particularly lonely that day?

What I'm Listening To Right Now: Eh Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say) - Lady Gaga

All Sorts of FAIL

2009-03-14T14:43:00.003+03:00

So here’s the thing. I exist (and I use that word in its loosest sense) at the peripherals of certain online sci-fi/fantasy communities. I don’t really engage, I mostly just surf the blogs and communities for reviews and fandom meta (analytical essays by fans of specific book/series/episode/etc.). One thing I’m following at the moment is an ongoing debate on racism and the racism, real or perceived, of a few prominent figures which has stemmed from comments they have and actions they have taken which were... unwise, to say the least.

One of the catalysts of this spiraling debate was a post of a white sf/f author on how to write the other and several People of Color calling her on the fact that they don’t think she should be giving advice on proper portrayal of PoC characters given the shortcomings of her own portrayals. Now Racefail 09 as it has come to be called isn’t really what this post is about. This post, as most of my posts are is about… me.

As I was reading some really interesting comments about marginalization and whitewashing of characters who ‘happen to be’ people of color, Black or otherwise, it got me wondering. Am I a person of color? Or is that some exclusively western concept. Or am *I* the privileged dominant race.

See here’s the thing. I am a Kuwaiti who lives in Kuwait, and if you haven’t seen Kuwaiti Privilege you haven’t seen anything. Now our power doesn’t come from the remnants of slavery (although that did take place in the not so distant past), our privilege is government sanctioned, signed and notarized. You see, we have a little black book called our ‘Nationality’. I’m not being metaphorical here; we have black bound booklets that hold our nationality info that we call our nationality. Here’s the thing too, not all Kuwaitis are created equals, at least not according to our constitution. Depending on how you came across your citizenship, you get all sorts of levels and flavors of privilege.

If you’re descended from the male line of someone who was around during the 1920 census, congratulations, you’re an Article 1 Citizen (sorry ladies, if you marry a non-Kuwaiti your children are shit out of luck, regardless of your contributions to your country). Naturalized? No worries, you’re an Article 5, you have all the rights and responsibly… er except the right to vote, you have to wait twenty years for that. Your kids are Article 7 though, they can totally vote when they’re 21. Their kids even get shiny super special Article 1s! Ladies, if you want a Kuwaiti citizenship of your very own you can marry a Kuwaiti guy and five years later you can even apply for an Article 8. Non-Kuwaiti husbands of Kuwaiti women are of course as shit out of luck as their children. Tomorrow we’ll put all your different nationalities up and play discrimination and privilege bingo.

Of course the narrow legal view is an oversimplification. It doesn’t take into consideration all the cool nonofficial discrimination. The discrimination on the basis of Country and Region of Origin, Arab vs. Persian Ancestry, Sunni vs. Shiite, Tribe, Class, and Family Connections. And of course the universal, Skin Color. Oh how about Religious School of Thought or you know, Preferred Brand of Toothpaste. You know we don’t marry our girls to Colgate guys; they’re just not our kind of people.

Now how non-Kuwaitis are treated like they’re subhuman is a whole ‘nother thing. The attitudes of some people are just, god *sickening* is not strong enough a word. There is of course a whole class/region/race distinction to that too. The discrimination against Arabs is of course different than that against Non-Arabs is *extremely* different to that against Southeast Asians. The discrimination against Moneyed Arabs is different from that towards non-Moneyed Arabs. Don’t even get me started on the treatment of unskilled laborers and domestic help as if they’re a legalized form of slavery or how those discriminated against turn around and do the same to everyone else. After all, racism and bigotry comes in all sorts of fun flavors too!

I started this post with a preface about the Racefail 09 debate because I was going to write some fiction that was a little less whitewashed than my usual. In fact I though I was headed that way until about three paragraphs into the post. Sorry, it seems my indignation has once again hijacked my brain. Hopefully, I’ll have something a little less Ranty McSoapbox next time. Honestly, remember when my post used to be *fun*? Yeah, neither do I.

For more on Racefail 09 go Here and Here.

For more on the articles of the Kuwaiti Citizenship Laws go Here. Sorry it’s in Arabic, I couldn’t find a decent English version. The Google translation was sadly inadequate.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: The Only Living Boy in New York - Simon & Garfunkel

It Speaks

2009-03-09T22:27:00.004+03:00

So I’ve been away from the blogosphere for a good while now. A lot has happened. Some good, some bad. Holidays, trips, births, deaths, all the stuff that makes life what it is. My writing skills feel rusty as hell, and I’m not sure I’m fully comfortable in returning to expressing myself in the written form yet. I would have waited until I came back to it naturally, but something came up about which I could not hold my peace.

See, they’re something you need to know about the vulnerability of being queer in this region. If we’re outed, we can lose everything. They’re nothing anyone can do to defend us. We have absolutely no rights. None. Zero.

So as you might guess, we have to be careful about how we live our lives. Because every time we come out to someone we are placing our lives and everything we value in their hands. Scary as hell? You betcha. So why don’t we keep our mouths shut and try to live our lives as best we can in the safety of a lie? Because living a lie that immense means that we might as well not be living. Sometimes, just so you can breathe once in a while, you have to find people you trust enough to say the truth.

Then again sometimes you’re just too young/stupid/horny/arrogant to be careful. And it comes back to bite you in the ass. Apparently that’s what happened to local national football player Fahad Al-Rashidi. The boy was either stupid in love/lust or just plain stupid when he allowed some guy to capture with on a cellphone camera giving what I have to say was a truly awkward blowjob.

When I came across the aforementioned video I hoped and prayed for the unlikely event that it wouldn’t spread like wildfire. I clung to that hope until my teenage sister came home from school with this month’s salacious piece of gossip. Fahad Al-Rashidi was getting kicked off the national team for being gay, and that’s why he didn’t play in our game against Australia. This article here only confirms that he has ‘asked’ to be ‘temporarily excused’ from the team for ‘personal reason’ which makes it more like he’s nipping off for a quick trip to the gents than anything.

So yeah because a twenty four year old guy decided to think with his smaller head, his life as he knows it is virtually over. All because there’s visual proof that he has a liking for dick. (Quel Horror.) We already know he lost his job, since he was apparently a pro footballer, even was on loan to a Saudi team for a while. I wonder how many friends he’ll get to keep, how many family members. How many anything.

I’m sorry Fahad. I’m sorry the people you trusted weren’t deserving of that trust. I’m sorry that we live in a world where homophobia runs rampant. I’m sorry we live in a country where you might get arrested on top of everything else that’s happened or will happen to you. I’m sorry I haven’t done more for a course that’s yours and mine and a countless number of others’. Most of all, I’m sorry that writing this article is all I can do for you.

Still Kicking

2009-02-03T16:00:00.003+03:00

I'm truly and genuinely sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone at all. I didn't even realize. I've just been slightly overwhelmed by real life, and the longer I was away the harder it seemed to come back.

I hope I didn't upset anyone very much. Again I apologize for disappearing without warning or at least a heads up. I'll try not to do that again, especially with what I now notice was probably not the best post to precede that by.

Will be back, hopefully soon.

Please Please Please

2008-11-27T21:33:00.004+03:00

Oh, please won’t you stop breaking my heart.

It keeps getting broken, and I have to piece it together over and over. It’s chipped and cracked, the faults spelling out the secrets of the universe if only I knew enough to read them.

It curls inside my breast, aching, like a hand cupping something precious.
It’s so delicate, like a dandelion puff, falling apart at the slightest provocation. A smile, a picture, the sunset, the rain, a story, a film, a song. Begging to be broken just on more time.

I feel it right there below my ribs, and my breath hitches and it hurts, god so pretty.

Oh, please, don’t you stop breaking my heart.

What I’m Listening to Right Now: غايب حبيبي – عبدالمجيد عبدالله

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

2008-11-22T19:50:00.003+03:00

Or extroverted antisocial half-assed lesbians with delusions of literary grandeur either.

Most of my days are like chalk sketches on a busy sidewalk, insignificant and worn away by the tread of many feet. I live a decent enough life, but not much happens that is of great value to me. I sleep I wake I laugh I cry, over and over, until it all blurs together, after all it’s only life. Then comes a piece of time that I can snatch out of the jaws of inconsequence. A moment, an hour, a day, an afternoon. An otherwise insignificant singularity that means something to me.

Last night I was with my family at the beach house as usual. They decided to opt out of the ocean view and instead sat out facing the road and the setting sun. A couple of hours into the evening I decided to sneak off for a smoke break. As a friend would say, open scene.

The beach was dark; the surrounding houses oddly abandoned for the weekend. The wind kept tugging on me insistently and the waves were making their presence felt, dashing themselves on the sand with wild abandon. Not the most idyllic setting but lovely nonetheless. Still I could see why people wanting a more… tranquil weekend would choose to be elsewhere. I walked past a couple of properties before finding an alcove in one property’s unforgiving wall, some concrete steps leading from the sand to the gate. I laid back onto the damp chill stone as the water churned before me. Jeff Buckley crooned his sorrow into my ear as I held the cigarette to my lips and drew my first smoke-filled breath of the evening. Bliss.

In other news, does anyone else want to edit artistically shot dimly lit non-porn sex scenes to certain songs? I was listening to Esthero’s I Drive Alone in the car and I just couldn’t. Get. It. Out. Of. My head. Face to face, mouths parted lips nearly touching but not quite there. Cut. Mouth skimming across jaw line, down neck, resting on collarbone. Cut. Hand making its way down inner thigh. Cut. Head tilted back neck arched as mouth is put to breast. Slow, fast, then slow again. Hands, jaws, mostly profiles, always coming back to the mouth. So. Just me then?

Soon, a morning on beach cleanup duty and an afternoon reconnecting with a friend while constantly forgetting to use my indoor voice.

What I’m Listening to Right Now: Ravel’s Bolero – Herbert Von Karajan at the Berliner Philharmonie

Flies in Your Eyes

2008-11-15T01:07:00.005+03:00

I think I would work much better as a character in a satirical work of literature bordering on the ridiculous, someone thought up on the toilet to fill up the empty spaces between plot development.

I have so much love for Never Mind the Buzzcocks, even if it's not as funny this year. There's nothing quite like mean spirited humor to put a smile on my face.

James Lance played gay sexaholic recovering addict morally ambiguous Spaniard superhero Timebomb on the British comedy series No Heroics. What's not to like about that?

I don't think I'll ever stop loving The Daily Show even if it does get on my nerves sometimes. Mostly an episode can get at least one giggle out of me.

Also, I love Eddie Izzard's standup.

There's something very peaceful about reading mildly depressing gay erotic fiction while you're smoking in your underwear in an empty bathtub.

God, I have such a long week ahead of me. I'm going to have to wake up, get out of bed, show up and do things. This week I can't just faff around pretending to be functional. I find this worrying and somewhat overwhelming.

For the first time since the weather turned, I haven't gone to my grandad's beach house for the weekend, which is a pity since it was a a full moon. Last time my astronomy hobbyist uncle brought out his telescope and we saw Jupiter and the Galilean moons which was pretty cool (and how come there's not a band called that?).

What I'm Listening to Right Now: You Were The Last High - The Dandy Warhols

Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog

2008-11-14T00:51:00.004+03:00

Only without the doctorate and the singing. Basically, just the horrible part.

Yesterday I let my fear get the best me. Yesterday I proved myself a coward. Yesterday I felt sick and ashamed and very very small. Yesterday I played the homophobe.

A Little Background:
So I’m taking a 400 level ethics related class, which more or less functions as a discussion group. The instructor isn’t exactly a dick but she gets on my nerves. She stated that religion will not factor into our discussion because it’s hard to find a consensus which you know, thank you Yahweh/God/Allah/Buddha (Hey Brendon, does Buddha fit here or is he more of a Moses/Jesus/Mohammed figure? Please excuse my ignorance in all things non Abrahamic). Then the other week she brings abortion up as an example of something that is legal but not moral (in the States of course because god forbid we have that sort of thing here) which made me go, ”Whoa Nelly,” because wait what now?

So I question where the immoral part comes from, and that just because one person considers an act immoral does not necessarily make it so. She says something about scale and denial of victim and how murder is murder. I point out that it’s murder only if you consider a fetus human, which a lot of people don’t, but she waves it away, claims it as Neutralization and that abortion isn’t what we’re talking about and mlves on.

I’m the only one who spoke out, the only one who thought what she said was wrong, hell the only one who admits to liberal leanings. Fuck it though, it’s not like I’m having abortions on the sly. It’s easy to defend something you’re somewhat removed from.

The Main Event, Sort Of:
Yesterday’s discussion was about media as ethics carriers. So what does she bring up? How the Liberal Western Brainwashing Media is representing the Sick Fuck Gays as Normal, or something of the sort. Now, I could have stayed quiet, I could have. But I didn’t, because that would have been odd for me.

So I made a couple of comments just to show how abhorrent I found that business before ‘joking’ that they probably considered ‘them’ to be part of society, so they included them for diversity’s sake just like black Asian and Hispanic characters. Just to prove my Straight Cred I made a couple of scoffing asides to the girl sitting next to me. It was just a couple of minutes of the entire discussion but it feel endless.

Why did I do that? Because I’m not used to feeling so exposed and vulnerable, and I hated it. Because all wishful thinking aside, I can’t come out, I just can’t, I'm not brave enough. Because I’m a gutless fucking coward who is never going to stand up for her beliefs. Because I don’t want to lose the liking and respect of people I don’t even fucking care about.

So I’m angry at myself, and sickened by the truth of who i reall am when all is said and done. I’m mad at my professor for being a stupid cunting fuck. I’m just, god so disappointed in myself and ashamed for not having the courage of my convictions.

In slightly related news: Goodbye month and a week of being smoke-free.

What I’m Listening to Right Now: Saga of The Ageing Orphan – Thin Lizzy

PS. Those who can do, those who can't read about those who do, sort of. The Kids Aren't Alright by samdome. A fake Vanity Fair article about Tony Stark AKA Iron Man. This is Tony Stark at his best. If you know, he was real, and was the Tony Stark that lived inside my head. So good, and realistic. Great voice, great analysis of the character, just amazing overall.

Pandora's Box

2008-11-08T16:02:00.002+03:00

Along with a side of Hope came a big ol' helping of Nasty.

So I was planning to celebrate Obama’s win the way I mark most occasions, with mediocre lesbian word porn. Now I may not be a ‘concerned party’ (more concerned than party) but I was still unequivocally on his side. So I was happy for Americans and cautiously optimistic for the rest of us. Also, thanking the Holy Fucking Intelligent Designer that the presence of Republican idiocy on my TV was going to be diluted. I was as near happy as I can get.

Then I found out that every single anti-gay ballot initiative up for a vote on Election Day passed with flying colors. Every. Single. One.

Now I’m not very surprised that Florida voted to pass proposition 2 and ‘protect’ straight marriage (everyone knows everything you have is less special if everyone can get it), after all they voted for Bush. Twice. Arizona is McCaine country, so again, not too surprised. I’m not even surprised that Arkansas decided to do their best to prevent gay couples from adopting or fostering children (hey maybe their Child Welfare can afford to turn away decent parents). So what if it’s an incredibly dick move that stems from nothing but ignorance and selfishness? So what?

What really knocked me on my ass was California’s passing of proposition 8. Apparently even LA county decided to go with yes on 8. Really? Really? Because ‘and Gomorrah’ sounds so much better?

So no America, you did not do as well as you thought you did. No girl on girl fiction of questionable quality for you.

The United States: All of the Prejudices of Home, None of the Comforts

*Puts another line under USA on list of places I’m definitely not immigrating to if I was actually going to immigrate.*

On a less Oh God Oh God This Can’t Really Be The Twenty First Century note: Colorado voted down Amendment 48, which would have defined a "person" from the point of egg fertilization. (You have to wonder what the authors were smoking when they penned this gem.) Anti-abortion Measure 11 in South Dakota which would have started the ball rolling on a challenge to Roe Vs. Wade and Proposition 4 in California which would have mandated parental notification for girls under 18 and mandated a 48 hour waiting period were also rejected. (California this makes up for nothing.)

See this article for more ballot initiative results.

What I'm Listening To Right Now: Never Gonna Change - Drive-By Truckers

Good Day Sunshine

2008-11-03T20:24:00.003+03:00

This morning was mine. Today nature decided to begin a day just for me. She made a morning so pretty it broke my heart, and placed it in my hands, gentle as a kiss.

Other people have their summers. They have their long lazy days as they lay on the warm sand. They have the gritty feel of sand on their legs and the coconut smell of suntan oil. They have their bright sunshine, their runs in the park. They have their freshly cut grass and melting ice-cream cones.

I have the first overcast day of the year. I have the soft rain steadily falling on the water of the marina, on the stones of the courtyard, on the ridiculous green lampposts. I have little brown birds smaller than my hand hopping on the ledge, feathers fluffed up and damp. I have the tentative touch of the cool breeze soft on my face like a hesitant lover. I have the weak sunlight slowly but surely making its presence known. I have the clean smell of wet dirt as I make my way back to my car.

More rainy days will come. I will probably tire of them. I’ll get distracted. I’ll spend them indoors and let them pass me by. I may even long for the heat of summer.

None of that will erase that this morning was mine.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Grace - Jeff Buckley

P.S. You should definitely read Wandering by HZ, which is this sweet beautiful short story about a friendship between the Earth and a comet. If you're going to anthropomorphize heavenly bodies, this is definitely the way to go.

Friends Don't Let Friends Overshare

2008-10-28T18:16:00.005+03:00

On the plus side I don't suffer much menstrual pain, just a vague backache and some ovarian discomfort. On the downside I have horrible PMT. I just want this dark cloud hovering my head to be over. My god, please just start already!

what she was wearing
by Denver Butson

this is my suicide dress
she told him
I only wear it on days
when I'm afraid
I might kill myself
if I don't wear it

you've been wearing it
every day since we met
he said

and these are my arson gloves

so you don't set fire to something?
he asked

exactly

and this is my terrorism lipstick
my assault and battery eyeliner
my armed robbery boots

I'd like to undress you he said
but would that make me an accomplice?

and today she said I'm wearing
my infidelity underwear
so don't get any ideas

and she put on her nervous breakdown hat
and walked out the door

What I'm Listening to Right Now: ماحد كما المولى - عادل الماس

I Need a Fix Cause I'm Going Down

2008-10-25T21:28:00.018+03:00

So I took a page out of Unique Stephen's book and decided to hit the beach. My grandfather owns a beach house in the area south of the Sheikh Muhammad Naser al-Ahmad Naval Base, which my family gathers at every weekend. It's a big place, every family has their own apartment, and there's usually a few uncles and cousins around. I'm not much of a photographer, I don't even own a camera, but I felt like documenting the day so I snagged my sister's point and shoot.

A few perfunctory hellos as I walked through the house, and then I hit the sand. The beach isn’t exactly private, but it’s private access for a long stretch and except for people walking by, folks usually keep to the stretches of sand in front of their own property.

I’d barely figured out how to work the camera so that all the shots wouldn’t be completely washed out and was taking my first pictures when I was summoned back into the house.

I was met by excited orders to put on some shoes and come quick and for heaven’s sake to bring my camera, there were kites!

I hopped into my uncle’s car and as we sped to a patch of empty land on the side opposite the water he explained. There were some sort of kite flying hobbyists with giant kites up in the sky and as the sun was starting to set they were probably going to be bringing them down.

Fortunately we caught them before they brought everything down. I’m not sure I got the hang of this picture taking thing in time, but I’m glad I was there. Unfortunately I didn't manage to capture these ladybugs in flight.

By the time I got back it was getting dark and I was accosted by three little girls demanding a turn at the camera. I had the thing all day and I thought this was only fair. (My sister hearing this line of reasoning later that night was not very amused even though she gives in to them just as easily.) One of them caught me either explaining how we should all go racing toward the camera or performing some sort of tribal dance.

I then caught our talented camerawoman flipping some sand the bird.

Finally, they they went back inside and left me in peace. I messed around with exposure to figure out how to take pictures of a dark beach. I was not entirely unsuccessful.

Spent some time playing with the surf while listening to Arabic music, which fit the night better before going back to the house to hang out with my uncles to talk about the economy and classic Arabian poetry before heading back home. All in all, not a bad way to spend an evening.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Ashes to Ashes - David Bowie

I Am An Old Internet Meme

2008-10-23T15:08:00.005+03:00

Or this is. It's one or the other. Or possibly both. So Inchy tagged me, and I posted because I'm obedient like that. Also nosy. And the type to overshare. It's win-win!

The rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Write six random things about yourself
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

I don't know how this is any different than my random information dumps but ok.

1. This isn't my only blog. I have another blog that I started around three years ago which I still post on, on and off. A few people that I know on that blog know my real life info, and while I trust them with a lot of stuff, I'm not out to them. Hence this all new 50% gayer blog. So if my writing style seems oddly familiar to couple of people who've come across this blog, that's the reason.

2. I wear a veil/headscarf/hijab/whatever you call it. Not the face covering part, just the thing muslim girls wrap around their heads. I'm not really for or against it, nobody made me wear it. It's a decision I made when I was 14, one I probably wouldn't make it the same way if I knew then what I know now. I don't particularly regret it. My only concern is that it makes me a bit of a hypocrite, hiding who I am behind religious symbolism.

3. My eyeteeth are slightly elongated. My fang like teeth do not make me a vampire. Don't be fooled by the bloodlust.

4. My parents are related. My mother is my paternal grandmother's cousin. So that means that my dad is also my second cousin. Unusual? Not so much in this part of the world where cousins marrying is the case more often than not. Gross? You betcha. I'm inbred!

5. Despite my extreme clumsiness and my being in a spectacular car wreck that involved my car flipping over and over down the highway and me crawling out of the smoking debris (good times), my most serious injury was a cut on my palm that needed a couple of stitches that I got when I fell through a glass door.

6. Sometimes I think I have olfactory hallucinations.

And I just realized that I lead the most boring sheltered life ever.

I tag: Boojam, De Campo BC, Delicately Realistic, Unique Stephen, Kwtia, and F.

Whaddya know. I actually know enough people to do this properly. Sort of. I knew my antisocial tendencies would come back to bite me in the ass one day.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Valerie - Mark Ronson ft. Amy Winehouse

I Miss My Mind The Most

2008-10-21T13:48:00.005+03:00

Maybe because these other things I haven't lost. They are merely temporarily misplaced.

Taco/Starla: My best friend. My platonic soul mate. She's like my elbow, under appreciated yet completely necessary. She tolerates my oddness and my attempts at humor, and she doesn’t kill me in my sleep. Also, she is a twelve year old boy and a classically trained mime (no she’s not just quiet don’t believe a word she says). We spend much too much time disappearing on one another.

Cairo: A couple of years ago I got to spend a week at Starla's place there. It was loud, crowded, dirty and I loved every second of it. There are a lot of places that I fell head over heels for, but my favorite is a place called Shadder. Tucked away in a residential area it's the oddest mix of old and new. Traditional low to the ground seats and hookahs. Wirless internet and alternative rock music. Saj bread with Nutella. Cairo needs its own post.

The Meems: The lesbian community support group I met in Lebanon. They're accepting, smart, focused, hardworking and active. They've achieved so much in a short time. I'm proud to claim those women as friends. They're just so warm and inclusive. They also need their own post.

Smoking: I am not a smoker. I 'm always ‘quitting’ smoking. I will have a couple of cigarettes every few months, and then spend every moment thinking about how I’m not smoking. It’s been nearly two months since my last cigarette, but I’ve had a couple of hookahs in the meantime so… one of which like the equivalent of an entire pack? Healthy. I miss the way smoking a cigarette makes me feel, and the ritual of it.

The Gym: I'm too lazy to go to the gym, but I miss the way working out makes me feel. Blood pumping, full of endorphins. Catching the occasional yoga session (I am the least bendy person ever). Spinning class. Swimming.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin

This Is Not Porn

2008-10-17T20:49:00.006+03:00

Complete schmoop. This is as saccharine as I'm liable to get. You really should watch this for it to make sense.

She lets out a sigh as she tilts her head, giving me more access to her neck. We’ve been making out aimlessly for the past half hour, long lazy kisses as we stretched out on the couch. She tightens her legs around my hips, and it seems like things are starting to heat up.

She slips a hand under my shirt, reaches up to unhook my bra. I urge her on, “Yeah, come on baby.”

I freeze, give her my best dear in head lights impression. She looks as surprised as I am. “Am I... Am I overwetting your neck?” A giggle bubbles up and I can’t stop it.

“Oh, fuck off.” She tries to shove me off but I can tell that her annoyance is feigned. Mostly.

“It's the engines Cap'n, they canna take it!” It’s embarrassing how funny I’m finding this.

“You know, just because you’re a dick doesn’t mean you actually have one. I’m pretty sure you can’t use the melty man excuse in a lesbian relationship.”

That just sets me off harder.

She rolls her eyes in tolerant amusement. “You are such a pain in my ass.”

“And what a delectable ass it is.” I pause as I’m crawling off of her to give it an appreciative bite.

“Brat. I’d take you over my knee if I didn’t think you’d enjoy it.”

“Sorry!” I’m not even a little repentant. “How about I make it up to you?”

“Explosions?” she asks suspiciously.

I count them off on my fingers. “John McClane going up against helicopters, a massage, and oral sex.”

“Add hot cocoa to the list and I'll ask you to marry me.”

“Not til it’s legal. When I leave you for a hot young coed I'm taking half of everything.”

"Fair enough. Now go to the kitchen and git me some pie, woman."

I cheerfully flip her off as I go on a hunt for tiny marshmallows. I don't think I've ever been this happy.

See? Told ya.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: Are You Gonna Be My Girl - Jet

Good Girls Get Rewards

2008-10-15T16:45:00.007+03:00

So much for the thoughtful post on reconciling my religion to my sexuality that I had planned.

*Shoots overly persistent muse a dirty look.*

Disclaimer: More porn.

Crack! The sound of her hand coming down on my ass is louder than I expected. It lingers where it landed, hot like a brand against my skin. I’m lying across her legs, the sheets are cool against my flushed face. It should be awkward and silly, but it’s not.

She pauses, idly tracing patterns on my back. “You’re such an odd creature. Why in the world would you choose this for a reward?”

Nnnrgh. She wants to talk now? Nonono. I squirm in her lap, dizzy with want. Less talking. More spanking.

She chuckles low and dirty as she runs her thumb against my crease. “Such a bossy bottom.”

I said that out loud? Wait. Bottom? I open my mouth to protest but what comes out is a surprised hiss as she lays three sharp smacks on me in quick succession.

She rests her hand on my thigh in gentle apology. “You ok?”

Ok? Is she crazy? My breathing sounds loud and harsh in my ears. “Don’t stop”, I say through gritted teeth. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more turned on.

I don’t know how many slaps come after that, five ten a hundred, hard and fast. My ass is on fire but I don’t care because I can almost come from this alone.

“Turn over.” I can tell from her voice that she's wrecked as I am, but I still hesitate. I don't know why but suddenly I feel overwhelmingly shy. My breath hitches in my chest, but I do it.

She’s on me as soon as I do, kissing me wet and sloppy, downright filthy. Her hands are everywhere and she's just wild which is making me crazy.

I pull her down and roll us over. I get on top and ride her thigh; it slips between my legs hot and slick. I'm wet, so wet. One hand rests on my still hot ass, urging me on, the other slips down and she presses gently on my clit and that’s it, I’m gone.

I open my eyes and am caught by her heated gaze. I crawl down with a smirk and place a kiss on her inner thigh.

“Your turn.”

What I'm Listening To Right Now: Breathe - Tristan Prettyman

PS: If you’re ok with boy on boy then you should definitely give this story a look. It was my inspiration. It’s Wincest so it’s dirtybadwrong by many standards, but it’s possibly the hottest spanking story on the internet.

She's So Heavy

2008-10-14T13:27:00.006+03:00

In the immortal words of Mr. Lennon: I want you so bad it's driving me mad it's driving me mad.

In other words? Porn. Of the female variety. Forewarned and all that.

She likes nothing better than driving me out of my mind. This is just like her, grabbing me before class, yanking me into a bathroom stall, fingering me quick and dirty while my brain flashes red: Danger! Danger! She takes me to the edge before pulling up my jeans, and buttoning them up with a smug smile on her face. A chaste kiss and she walks away with my panties, a scrap of lace in her back pocket.

It’s so hard not to squirm in my seat, unused to the roughness of denim as it rubs up against me. She walks in and starts the lecture, cool and collected, as if she never pressed me to the cool tile whispering dirty nothings into my ear while her fingers were inside me.

Half the guys in the room are at half mast, saluting that hint of cleavage. She's completely indifferent, they don’t have a chance, she’s all mine, the fucking tease.

I press my thighs in together, and try not to moan. My face must show what I’m thinking; her gaze sharpens when I meet her eyes. She pauses. Please please please don’t asking me a question. She does of course. Bitch.

Frantically, I try to piece together what’s been said while I was thinking about the gory of her breasts. I cough; my voice is completely shredded by need. I must have come up with a convincing enough response, because she gives me a curt nod and moves on, her raised brow making me a promise. Good girls get rewards.

What I'm Listening to Right Now: I Want You (She's So Heavy) - The Beatles (what else?)

Social Butterfly

2008-10-12T20:56:00.006+03:00

The short lifespan part at least.

Growing up I was half in love with Ponyboy from The Outsiders. I also wanted to be him. I thought it was some sort of narcissism.

The only long-term relationship I’ve had in my life is with my best friend. I have trouble maintaining friendships because I panic, feel trapped and obligated, then start to distance myself. My best friend spends most of the year studying abroad and is possibly the world’s least demanding person and one of my favorite people of all time. I’ve known her for nearly ten years. Taco/Starla.

Most of my other friendships either start out very intense, but die out quickly or are on standby year round with occasional short bursts of activity to keep them viable.

I am not a people person.

Nearly a year ago I made new friends. Two guys and a girl. We started off spending nearly every day together. One of the guys drifted off. The remaining guy paired up with the girl. The girl and I remain pretty close. The boyfriend and I are still pretty friendly. Girl and Guy, the Couple.

Of the gay women’s group I hit off pretty well with one girl. We still keep in touch, more or less. She’s smart and funny, and inexplicably fond of my odd thought processes. Jen.

A few years ago I met a fanfiction writer online. I was a fan of her writing, and we started an IM friendship. She was sweet, smart, and funny. Wife to a tattoo artist and mother to a cool kid, and although those things are very much a part of who she is, they don't define her. She’s incredibly talented, and is still online. I stopped talking to her over a year ago. I’d really like to get back that friendship but I don’t know how to start. Tabaqui.

People often underestimate my younger sister. Everyone thinks I’m the smart one because I’m outspoken and she’s pathologically shy. She’s creative, hardworking, and loves to learn. She’s the only person in my family who for the most part accepts me. Violet.

Taco/Starla, Girl!Couple, Boy!Couple, Jen, Tabaqui, and Vi. These are the people I consider friends.

What I'm Listening To Right Now: Grave's Amazing Hands - Dave Barnes

Next Post: Word Porn or Religion. I am yet undecided.

Assholes, Dicks, et al.

2008-10-09T19:15:00.004+03:00

MOTHERFUCKER.

For a while now I've been Vice Chair of a certain committee. Due to the time I've taken off, the Chair was someone I had seniority over. I sometimes didn't agree with some of his methods, but fuck it, Pragmatism, whatever, I made not a peep when he was basically running the thing to the ground.

Before he left, he made some noises about me not being the best choice for his replacement. Whatever, asshole, I'm the only choice. So I grit my teeth, smile, make noncommittal noises, whatever, just leave please.

So he leaves he's gone, great. I send him a message with the time and place of the first committee meeting we're having to get reorganized. He doesn't show, fine. His friends decide to leave as well. We meet, make plans, I make a point of referring to myself as 'Acting Chair' lest I offend any sensibilities. We informally agree to meet in a couple of days to check on what progress has been made. I send the people who attended a summary of what happened, including the now vacant positions.

Next meeting, I explain the current distribution of jobs, and what each entails. People protest the vagueness of the situation. I decide to hell with it, and tell them they can decide what on things, offer (insincerely) to step aside for anyone more qualified (I don't believe anyone is). So we talk it out and come to a general consensus.

Lame Duck Dickwad sends me a message demanding to know where I get off making myself Chair and giving out positions without him there. Wait, what? I make the appropriate angry insulted noises. We back and forth for a bit before making fake nice and singing each other's praises. He asks me to take back everything that happened while he was at home with his dick in his hands.

LDD, inconveniencing the world for his ego since 2008. Great start to a glowing post-grad career.

Again, pragmatism. I send out a terse message about disregarding everything that's happened because of decisions made by the previous admin. The person LDD wants for vice chair (incidentally, not who was chosen) calls me all Innocent & Confused. The person chosen as Vice calls me, understandably bewildered. For the sake of conflict avoidance, I claim misunderstanding and departmental red tape. No one else says squat. LDD sends a message magnanimously naming me as Chair and Innocent as Vice.

Please Lord save me from Further Developments.

Also, I would kill to know who LDD's inside source is.

Tuesday's On The Phone To Me

2008-10-08T14:46:00.002+03:00

Twice a week, I have a four hour break starting at half past nine. I can’t go home because I have a case of bed related separation anxiety. I’m not agoraphobic, I just hate being outside of my house and around other people. I find prolonged exposure to other human beings emotionally exhausting.

Monday was the first of these empty days. I had no idea what to do with myself. I wasn’t in the mood to read and as usual, I had nothing constructive to do.

In Kuwait, people go to the mall. That’s the only thing we do. If the weather gets cooler I might someplace to walk around outdoors, but this time I went with tradition and headed to the mall. I went to the Avenues, which is Kuwait’s biggest mall, and the closest one to campus. It was pleasantly empty at this time of day, something I haven’t experienced before. I treated myself to chocolate chip pancakes smothered in maple and chocolate syrup/ a heart attack. I had the good fortune to come across the World Press Photo 2008 exhibition.

I spent the better part of an hour wander around admiring the photographs. Some of them were really touching. One of the photos was of a couple who were the victims of anti-gay violence that had broken out at a Pride parade in Hungary. I wonder how it slipped under the morality police’s radar.

Next time a bagel, a fake (read nonalcoholic) Long Island Iced Tea and a book if I can find one that captures my attention.

It's Alive

2008-10-05T09:58:00.004+03:00

Two days spent groomed, painted, and accessorized to hell and back. Two days serving middle aged women tea and coffee and smiling and blushing when they wish me a nice husband (no thanks). Two days spent tottering around in heels (2 inches are too heels). Escaping on the second night with my nice but boring cousins for dinner and a movie (at least there was sushi).

Three days with my family at a friend’s farm in Abdaly, a rural area in northern Kuwait near the Iraqi border. Mostly made do with a lot of movies and mainlining music. I got to ride a motorcycle, passenger but still. It was pretty and I got to ignore the approaching first day of the school year.

Yesterday was my first day of classes, which for the most part was a whole lot of hurry up and wait. Making sure you get to class on time and then waiting the required fifteen minutes for the professor to show up isn't exactly my idea of a good time.

The only exception was my freshman English class. Why am I taking freshman English? I'm glad you asked. I'm taking it this year because the last three times I've taken it I freaked the hell out halfway the semester and dropped it. Like it was hot even. This class is basically a middle school report writing class that you have to take every. fucking. day. An entire semester of some moron standing over my shoulder telling me how to cite my sources, going over every step of writing a fifteen hundred word paper. Discussing each and every detail for a paper shorter than most homework assignments I've written for my real classes.

Mind crushing boredom terrifies me like nothing else. I get cranky and either get into it with the instructor or just stop showing up. Oh, have I mentioned that you don’t write this ‘paper’ individually? No, it takes teamwork to get through this course.

God help me.

This Is Not The End

2008-09-22T21:30:00.004+03:00

The last ten days of Ramadan have a special significance in Islam. For what it's worth, I'm going to step up, and try to spend sometime on my religion. Maybe I can try and reconnect with God. I don't know that it's the only way, but it's the only way I know. Wish me luck!

I'll be around, commenting and what not, but I won't be really up to posting. See you in October!

Just One of the Boys

2008-09-18T23:53:00.004+03:00

*Warning: This Post contains Large Amounts of the Word 'Misogyny' and Some Strongly Offensive Language*

I'm waiting for them to come by any day now to take away my feminist card and issue me a misogynistic asshole card. I do respect women, truly, but sometimes it seems like I try my best to prove otherwise. Sometimes it feels like I'm the antithesis of everything I stand for.

Strike One: The Swear Words
Is it a sign of my immaturity that a large part of my preferred vocabulary is unprintable? I swear much too much. I try not to do it loudly in public, because I don't do it to deliberately cause offense. I just developed an affection for it in my formative years. If I was a better person I'd probably find a better way to express my self, or I'd want to find one.

Worse than the fact that I can't seem to lay off swearing, or stop being so comfortable doing it, is the type of swear words I use. I don't know if it's the language or just me, but the way I swear just seems degrading to women. Bitch, pussy, whorecunt, cocksucker, these all extremely derogatory. The only one of these words I'd use in reference to myself is bitch, with its slightly less negative connotations (I wonder if it's because it's less passive ). I'm more comfortable being refered to as a dick, jerk, prick, asshole. (3 out of 4 phallic swearwords, interesting)

It doesn't matter that I use these words on an equal distribution of genders, the words themselves are the issue. My heirachy of swearwords is that of an over privleged frat boy.

Strike Two: Entertainment

This might be more Hollywood's fault than mine, since very few of their movies pass the Bechdel Test. First let me confess that I am a fan of the big commercial movies. I like action flicks. I like movies with lots of guns, blood, and explosions. I like shallow comedies with lots of dick jokes. I like movies with a lot of male bonding (bondage too, but that's another story about homoerotism and gay subtext in action flicks).

These movies aren't the best place to find strong female characters. They can be strong, they just have to do it as sexy dominatrix-types that give away when the hero gets his balls back. On the whole though, it's much better for them to be the hot piece of ass that makes the mission that much more important. So I watch movies where manly men fuck brainless scantily clad women, where the role of female characters is marginalized, where sometimes the women could easily be replaced by cardboard cutouts. And I. Eat. That. Shit. Up.

Another aspect of the entertainment is my sense of humor. My occasionally misogynistic sense of humor. Example:I'm a huge fan of Bill Hicks. I'd like to think that he was a product of his times, that maybe he wasn't necessarily homophobic or misogynistic, other than a way that was typical of the the early 90s, but it's hard to hold on to that believe when I listen to his act. The man thrived on being politically incorrect so it's not like women and gay people were his only targets, but it's hard to paint him as someone who was supportive of the feminist cause.

Strike Three: I say dude a lot

Now, I don't know if that's misogynistic or just sad. Sometimes it feels like I'm taking on some masculine traits. The way I talk, the way I talk, the way I interact with my friends. If this was a purely natural way of expressing myself, I wouldn't have been concerned.

The truth is, sometimes I do it because I enjoy it, because it feels good and I don't know why. Is it because deep down I hate being a woman? I don't think so, I have the occasional brief penis envy and do envy them their male privilege, but honestly I like being who I am. Is it because I feel a need to manifest my gay identity? Maybe, it's hard to be for all intents and purposes a non-functioning lesbian, it makes my struggle with my sexual identity that much harder.

I really don't know if these aspects of my personality makes me anti-feminist. I think I can beat up a hooker in Grand Theft Auto and still oppose violence against women. I think I can watch half naked dancers in a rap video without going out and objectifying women in real life. I think I can say the word cunt without losing respect for women. Does that make me a misogynist?

Checking It Twice

2008-09-16T23:31:00.002+03:00

So the networks are gearing up for a new season of televisions shows. Here's a rundown of what's going to grace my TV screen.

*Warning: Possible Spoilers Ahead*

Shows I Will Watch:

House: Ye, it's formulaic as hell. Yes, the medical mystery is boring and predictable. Hugh Laurie's Greg House makes up for a lot. I find certain characters (House, Wilson, Cuddy) interesting, and if the give me inough character plot to keep me hooked, I'm going to keep watching.
Supernatural: Some of the individual episode stories were pretty cool, but I was much more into seasonal arcs. I am waiting to find out how they'll get Dean out of hell, and if Sam will be the Antichrist. If they keep up the violence, the angst, and the 'brotherly' love, I'll be there.
The Sarah Connor Chronicles: I love Cameron so much. Maybe one day the blue fairy will make her a real boy. Until then I'll enjoy watching all the ways she makes mine and John's hearts ache.
Heroes: I like the comic book schtick. I'm hoping for interesting female characters that aren't mentally ill. I hope Nikki and Nathan are still alive.
Brothers and Sisters: I love Sally Field. The Walkers are wonderfully dysfunctional. I don't like Tommy much, but I love everyone else. I hear Eric McCormack is going to guest this season.
Dexter: I love this show so much. Dexter is adorable. Michael C. Hall and Julie Wentz, I like, and I don't hate the rest of the cast.
Entourage: They're shallow misogynistic assholes, but I love my boys. The season is off the a mediocre start, but I'm hoping they'll come through with the snarky dialogue.
Grey's Anatomy: The main couple annoys the hell out of me. Grey is too whiny and Shepperd is always tearing up. I have to watch this because everyone I know does, and I'll be overwhelmed by whining if I don't. Also, I like Bailey.
Torchwood: I heard that this season has been roformatted into 5 hourlong episodes that will be airing on consecutive days. I have no idea why, but it's not like I watch this show for the logic.

This post is already much longer than I wanted it to be so I'm going to leave the maybes for next time.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2008-09-15T22:20:00.007+03:00

Rain. I love overcast skies. I love the smell before after and during rain. I love the way the air feels, cool and clean and wet against my face.

Chocolate. Cheap milk chocolate is like a one night stand. Quick and dirty against the bathroom wall, hot body and cool porcelain and then it's over. With dark chocolate is a committed loving relationship, albeit a long distance one. Sometimes when the separation becomes too much, I cheat, but ultimately I return.

Coffee. I have much love for coffee, but I don't drink it much. When I drink it everyday I start taking it for granted, and I haven't found decent readily available beans. I like it bitter traditional Arabic in the tiny cups. I like it mudlike Turkish. I like it in the somewhat crappy Starbucks raspberry iced mocha. I like it best black with a little sugar if its a really really decent brew. I also like it in ice cream, if it's strong and bittersweet.

New Who. I loved Eccleston's moody broody angst. I loved Tennent's manic-depressive manchild death god. (He has freckles)I liked the cheesiness. I liked Rose, I loved Donna.

Torchwood. All fucking all the time. As Campy as Cap'n Jack Harkness's toothpaste commercial smile, and as pretty as Gwen's freckles.

Supernatural. So much UST. Guns, Knives, and violence. The Impala. Jensen Ackles mouth. Jensen Ackle's freckles. Jensen Ackles in general, so pretty it makes me confused.

My Typewriter. An old manual Underwood model. Back when we were highschool my best friend got it for me, off of something I said about wanting to hear myself click away as I worked on my Great Non-American Novel. I never got it to work, and I wasn't ever much of a writer, but it's still one of the most perfect thing I own.

My Red Sin City Lunchbox. It's red, has movie Marv on it, and is just plain pretty. An indulgent purchase a couple of days ago, but I think I'm in love. It's tin and comes with a matching thermos. The only thing better would be original A New Hope.

Jane Austen. Because she rocks. And the Pride and Prejudice BBC mini series kicks the movie's ass any day of the week. I need to get my hands on a copy of Mansfield Park though.

Music. Old School Gulfi. Glam. Iggy Pop. Rockabilly. Singer-song writers. The Who. Thin Lizzy. Jeff Buckley. Regina Spektor. Big band. Classic Rock. Fairooz. The Doors. Kibarye. The list is endless and varied.

American Gods. I love love love Neil Gaiman's stuff. This book was the first of his I read I think. This is actually where I got my pen name.

Irony. Sometimes, it's all I need to keep me going.

Freckles. They are hot liek whoa.

Wish List

2008-09-14T23:02:00.002+03:00

There are a lot of things that I want to do. Some of them are easy things that I know I will be able to do eventually. Others are things that I may be able to do with effort and relocation. Others still are things that I’m pretty certain I won’t be able to do.

Some of these things:

Graduate: Hopefully in about eight months.
Get my MBA: I was hoping that I’d push up my GPA high enough that I’d qualify for a scholarship to go abroad, but I don’t think that’s happening. I still qualify for a local, so maybe I’ll stick around for a couple of years and get one while I work.
Get into shape and get into an EMT then a paramedic program: If I can get a non-KU MBA scholarship for somewhere other than Kuwait, maybe this is something I can do on my own dime. I don’t think I’d like a desk job much, and being a first responder seems useful, something I’ve always sort of wanted to be.
Become an assistant to someone who does something interesting: I think about doing this after I get my MBA. I’m not an efficient person by nature, but I’d like to learn to be. Also, it seems like a good way to learn about the real world.
Go bungee jumping: This just seems like a lot of fun.
Go skydiving: Again, fun.
Learn to ride a motorcycle: Same. Also, pretty.
Read something Non-Fiction and finish it: I’ve just never been able to do this. I need a plot to hold my interest.
Learn to not suck at video game: For my hand to eye coordination of course.
Learn another language: Maybe Spanish or German. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Knowing only two seems so… limiting.
Learn Sign Language: It just seems interesting.
Learn to play a musical instrument: Most likely the guitar. I’ve always loved music, I’d like to be able to be part of it.
Go to a music concert: But to a band I like and whose songs I know. Maybe with some people I could enjoy it with. Some of my friends went to the Muse concert in Dubai a few months ago, and I’ve always resented my not being able to go.

So, is there anything that you wish you could do?

Edited to Add: Get Laid: I think this one speaks for itself. (Insert wry smirk here.)

Situation Normal

2008-09-12T23:43:00.000+03:00

All Fucked Up.

A few years back, I’d have never thought of going to a Baskin Robins and getting a flavor I’d already tried. Once I tried to dye my hair blue (it was too dark to make a difference). I tried to learn skateboarding at a heavy and highly uncoordinated 17. I wrote terrible poetry and attempted to write what was possibly the world’s worst rap. My grades were not good enough to get me into university. I was miserable and felt like my life had no potential (with my family the options seemed to be either get into college or find a way to erase myself from the timeline), but it was freeing in a way. I was a sheltered kid leading a boring life, but I thought I was the biggest screw up that ever existed.

At 19, I graduated with a GPA that got me into university, barely. In Kuwait, you have to decide what you want to study before you register for university. I flipped a coin and went into business school where I was an unexceptional student, albeit one that was taking way too long to graduate. I made a few friends, had a few laughs, and shirked as much responsibility as I could. I tried to rebel, and decided to change majors. Took some time off to get my shit together, and spent it taking to my bed with the vapors. I watched a lot of porn, read some Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, ate my weight in junk food, and spent way too much time reading fanfiction exploring teh gay subtext (and turning it into the mansex) between the male leads of several tv shows. Then, with no real desire to do so, I went back to school.

Soon I will be starting what is hopefully going to be my last year of being an undergrad at Kuwait University. Today for the first time in too long, I ordered an ice-cream flavor I haven’t tried before. About one week ago I started this blog. A month ago I submitted an essay to the editor of the newsletter of a gay women’s group to which I belong. A year ago I met that women’s group for the first time. Two years ago, I came back to school. Five years ago I finished high school.

I’m starting to think that it is possible for me to get my act together.

Effortless

2008-09-11T20:57:00.007+03:00

I make no effort.

The following is a short film on gender representation in advertising that came out in 1999 but is still pretty relevant I think.

I feel a little guilty that the treatment didn’t take.

I wear size 16 American. I’m a big girl with small to average breasts (all the cons none of the pros) and I think they may be a little lopsided. I have big hands and wear size 9 and a half shoes. I rarely wear makeup and my hair gets to do whatever it wants. I’m not tanned, toned, groomed, or plucked. Despite my family’s best efforts, ranging from locking the kitchen and fridge when I was growing up to my favorite, “You’ll never get a man looking like that” (pity, that), I don’t hate myself or the way I look. I should probably make an effort to get a more feminine self-esteem.

That said, I think this is pretty serious stuff. It took me a long time to shut out the sound of other people's voices and learn to accept my body.

It's Not an Addiction

2008-09-10T20:44:00.003+03:00

I can stop anytime I want. When I'm dead for instance.

I have a very clear memory of the day I bought my first book; the first book that wasn’t a hand me down or household communal property. It was a book not to be read to me at bedtime, but one that I could read all by myself. I was in first grade, and it was my first year in a school that taught primarily in English. It was the first year after Kuwait’s liberation. I was learning a whole new language and the possibilities seemed endless. I went with my mother to a bookstore downtown; it was down the street from the Sheraton roundabout. I remember feeling excited and proud and so very grown up.

My memory of the book is vague but affectionate, like a much beloved photograph faded by time and the touch of too many hands. The pages were stiff cardboard and it was brightly colored, I remember the blues, reds, and yellows shining out at me like never before. It was about anthropomorphic animals receiving a series of phone calls, and when you finished the sentence on a page you could press a button that would ring cheerfully at you just like a telephone. Sometimes, I would daringly press the button without even finishing the sentence.

Looking back, the book must have been made for a younger child, but I might as well have discovered the atom. It was just that huge. As a child, I never had much interest in other kids. A curious amalgam, I was an antisocial chatterbox. I enjoyed asking questions but more than that I love to talk. On and on I’d go in these monologues about everything and nothing. But reading was better than all of that. I took the plunge, and I’ve never looked back.

Reading quickly became the most important thing in my life. It was like an obsession, an addiction; I just couldn’t get enough. I read in during recess, during class, in bed, in the car, even in the shower. I remember my bemused parents catching on and putting me through searches at the bathroom door.

I was (to my eternal shame) a fan of the Baby-Sitters Club and the Sweet Valley High books, until I was about 14. After that I spent a summer as a hardcore John Grisham fan, my mother spent that summer parceling out his books in daily doses worried that I’d blind myself if I read more than one a day. Scattered among these were The Outsiders, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Narnia Chronicles. If I ran out I’d go into a panic, one memorable time reading the backs of cereal boxes to hold me over until I got to the school library.

It made being grounded a very odd experience, my parents carting away my books in a big box. Being sent to my room was never really an effective punishment for me. They could take away my television privileges, but they could never manage to take away all my books. I was a devious little thing, hiding supplies underneath my mattress and in my underwear drawer. Although I would worry that my grounding would outlast my secret stash. My greatest fear growing up was boredom. I remember the agony of being banned from the school library once, when my teachers where unhappy with my grades; a punishment both cruel and unusual.

Through the years, I’ve picked up and discarded dozens of other interests and hobbies, but in my heart I’ve always stayed true to reading. I’ve changed, grown up, learned to function in polite company. I’ve made friends, and even liked some enough to keep them. Sometimes I’d even go for months without cracking open a book. Well, weeks at least. A couple of times probably.

In the end though, I’ll always come back to literature. You never forget your first love.

In Loco Parentis

2008-09-09T19:57:00.001+03:00

Yeah, I wish.

I was raised my real parents in a two parent household. My parents aren’t perfect but they did the best they knew how to do. I’m pretty sure they love me, I’m even almost certain my mother does. I know they want what’s best for me. I love them back. Well, I love my mother and I’m working up affection for my father.

My parents are typical salt of the earth folk. They’re traditional moderate to conservative Kuwaitis. They struggle to give me freedom within limits they see fit; after all I am an unmarried daughter living in their household. They expect me to honor and obey them, as they expect it of all their children.

I do love them, and on the day they need it I plan on being there them as they have been for me. To this day I rely on their financial and moral support. They provide me with all the luxuries that they can afford. Yet sometimes I dream of leaving them behind and never looking back.

I’m not out to my parents or anyone else in my family. I don’t plan on ever coming out to them. I don’t want to lose what love and respect they have for me. Also, I’m terribly fond of being alive.

I love my family, but I don’t trust them. I believe without a doubt that if they found out who I really was, they would harm me both emotionally and physically. I don’t know for sure what they would do and I hope that I’ll never find out.

I don’t think they’d actually murder me. Would they? Perhaps they’ll only lock me up. Take away my dignity. Take away my freedom.

I’m still trying to come to terms with that knowledge. It’s not a pleasant thing to have to do.

Dude, Where’s My Cock?

2008-09-08T20:19:00.002+03:00

A study on pop culture’s role in increasing the masculinity of females in the 18 to 45 demographic. Or not.

I’ve always been interested on what really defines gender, because I’ve been made to feel that I’m somehow masculine just because I don’t fit into the traditional Kuwaiti female role. Then again, the traditional Kuwaiti female role is pretty retarded. I really resent that people think that there’s one right way to be female. Who are these people who think they have the right to define how I should or should not be?

So I’d rather shop for books than shop for clothes. So I’ve never cared about fitting into other peoples definitions of beauty. So I’m not some sort of shrinking violent. So maybe I like a little violence in my movies. So what? Who gets to say that being a certain way takes away from my female credentials.

It seems to me that individual taste is really underappreciated in Kuwaiti society. If a girl likes to play video games then she feels the need to apologize for it. ‘Oh I play video game, but I also really like fashion too!’ Well, fuck that! I’m tired of these arbitrary stereotypes.

I like video games (suck at them but like them) and hate fashion. I’m a sci-fi geek. I don’t really follow a particular sport but will usually watch if I have no better options. Very little scares me, but that’s more stupidity than bravery. I enjoy driving, but hate the roads. I love food, and am too lazy to exercise. I’m pretty sure I have commitment issues. I rarely finish what I start. I’d love to learn how to cook one day. I like kids, in small doses for short burst of time. I prefer dogs. I’m comfortable around both guys and girls, possibly more so around the former. No matter what anyone says, I'm still very much a woman.

If you fit into the stereotypical definition of woman? More power to you if that's what you choose to do. I'm not in any way against the hetero normative life style. I just resent being expected to live it. What's wrong with being yourself, no matter who that self is, perfect housewife or radical feminist? Hell, you can be both for all i care, as long as you let me be who I want to be.

I really wish the people I know would stop trying to fit me into some sort of category and just join me in appreciating individualism.

Artificially Distressed

2008-09-07T20:44:00.003+03:00

Like a pair of jeans. So.

I like someone and this is new for me. It’s been four years since I admitted to myself that I wasn’t 100% straight. Since then, I’ve buried any spark of attraction I felt under guilt, fear, and paranoia. Hell, I had myself half convinced that I was asexual. Then she shows up in my life.

I’m not ready for her. She’s got these eyes, and this smile, and her *hands*. I could have shrugged it off easy if she’d only stayed quiet. But she’s smart and funny, half confident, half cocky. She’s got a filthy mouth and a chip of her shoulder, and I. Just. Stare.

She makes me flustered. I’m never flustered! I can’t talk to her, and I’m the type that will talk about anything to anyone. And yet when I’m around her I can’t put two words together. Either that or I babble incoherently in ways that I will cringe about for days after.

She’s a friend of a friend, and after our first meeting I have no way of contacting her. I nurse a tiny crush for a little while, and despite my friends pressuring me to find a way to see her I decide to move on. She’s out of my league anyway. It’s nice to know that I can feel attraction to someone not on the TV screen, but that’s that. But apparently it’s not my shot to call.

I’m out with a friend when I bump into her again. My brain runs for cover. She beams as she greets me and insists we exchange phone numbers. I do my best to seem sober and coherent but manage to sound like a concussed drunk. She doesn’t seem to notice, waves goodbye as I drag my friend in the opposite direction. My friend is in awe of the level of retardation I've achieved. She mocks me and tries to convince me that getting in touch with Terrifying Gay Crush would not actually kill me.

I do get in touch. It takes me about a month to get over being completely chickenshit, but I do it. I send her an sms, and try very hard not to be crushed when I don’t get a reply. A week later, she answers. She’d like very much for us to hang out but unfortunately she’s out of the country. We exchange a few friendly (flirty?) messages, before she says that when she gets back ‘all of us’ should get together sometime in Ramadan. I’m not disappointed, baby steps, right?

I wait two weeks, because I’m not a stalker. I mention the possibility of plans. She apologizes that she’s swamped. I ramble disjointedly (yes, in a message, it’s a gift), hopefully conveying similar circumstances and that we could do something some other time. She tells me to check with Mutual Friend and let her know. It seems like a brush off. So I’m assuming that I did come off as a creepy desperate stalker and I need to back the fuck off.

I suck at this.

This Isn't What You Think It Is

2008-09-06T00:02:00.003+03:00

Except it is. Just a little word porn. Lesbian word porn because those who can do and those who can't blog apparently. I need to break the habit of writing in the first person. The present tense is new for me I think.

Her hands are unhurried as they map my body. Softly, god so softly they trace their way over me. From the bottom of my ribcage, down to my hipbone, up down up down. She's driving me mad. I’m so conflicted, part of me wanting her to never stop and part wanting those clever hands elsewhere. I don’t know where, don’t care, above, below, I just want her to fucking move.

She smirks knowingly as I arc up pushing into her touch, begging for it to be a little more substantial. She drifts down; bypassing the place I need her most, stroking my thighs, her fingertips warm against my calves. Does she know how crazy she’s making me? She must, but I won’t give in, not yet. I press my lips together, holding it back. She’s not winning that easily. And yet… just one word and I know I’ll get what I want. I shift, enjoying the press of my cotton panties. I’m so wet.

Her mouth is warm against my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. I can’t. I won’t. Her eyes are full of mischief as she smiles at me. My heart beats loudly, my breath sounds harsh to my ears. And still she smiles. I cover that arrogant mouth with my fingers, brushing her lips back and forth with my thumb. She parts them, lets it in and softly bites down on the pad of my thumb. With that my resistance crumbles and I give her what she wants. I whisper it once, then again louder.

Please.

Trite

2008-09-05T03:59:00.002+03:00

It's the flavor of the day. Not a great literary work or anything like that. This ain't Ginsberg's Howl. Definitely shit, but it's my shit. Anyway.

Abomination
They hiss
I think
Of abominable snowmen
Except
I am real
Here, Queer
Not hiding in mountains
Not a story told
To frighten kids
I am
Taking the same class
In the next cubicle
Borrowing staplers
Sitting at the table
Making breakfast
So I don’t understand
What they mean by
Abomination

Inauspicious

2008-09-04T04:44:00.000+03:00

Starting this blog during Ramadan might not have been my best idea. When you start a blog about being a nonpracticing closeted Kuwaiti lesbian there are probably better months to start it that the holiest month on the Islamic calender, but needs must. There's some stuff I just had to get out, and it felt like a speak now or forever hold your silence sort of situation. So I am. Speaking. Now.

So here are the basics. I'm Kuwaiti. Female. Muslim. Ish. Gay. Ish. Mid-twenties. Unsuccessful writer of mediocre talent currently between situations, thinking of pursuing of activist work.

Think of my mind as a busy metropolis and of this blog as its main landfill. This means everything from bad poetry to worse erotica to treatises on my sexuality and what it means to me.