Not Part Two

I didn’t do it.

It seemed that perfect moment never arose. That moment where I imagine cheesy after-school special music to start playing, and I turn to my sister and say, “I’m gay.” A few times I braced myself, and opened my mouth to say the words, but my sister filled those moment of silence with banter. My sister talks a mile-a-minute, and it seems at times her mind drifts from one topic to another, as if she were playing hopscotch. I felt almost unable to take control of the conversation and say what I wanted too. Of course, I could have. I could have just started, I suppose there were many failed opportunities.

Sitting here, relating the day, I am amused that I had a hard time telling her. Our outing was so implicitly fabulously gay. I had suggested that we meet up after I was done work and go shopping. My sister looks up to me as a style guru, and was thrilled that we were heading down to the trendy Queen West area to shop. We had a blast.

We are in this one store, and are both slightly jittery as everything is 50% off.

“Oh my god, the Fred Perry is on sale too,” I say in a hushed awed voice. “Fred Perry never goes on sale.”

“They have Triple 5 Soul for $20,” my sister says over from the girls section.

We proceed to pick out items, and call the other over, seeking the others opinion. We approve of each other selections, using words like, “cute” and “hot”. We walk out of the store with a couple bags of purchases. Both of us are visibly excited over the gear we have acquired and keep repeating that we can’t believe that we got it for so cheap.

My favourite moment was when were in the Guess store, staring in astonishment at this hot pink bra top with big turquoise and red rhinestones stuck on. We seem to read each others minds.

“It’s like something they would wear...,” my sister starts.

“In a Bollywood movie...,” I continue.

“From the Eighties,” We both say in unison.

We treat ourselves to a dinner at Red Lobster. And while, I didn’t come out to her, I did broach subjects which I haven’t with my family. I tell her about going to therapy. She asks me if it was good, and inquires as to how much it cost. She says that she should probably get some too, and I nod my head in a sympathetic knowing way.

There really isn’t a dull moment. We laugh talking about our insane parents. And my sister, has me almost in tears as she imitates our mothers crazy dramatic dialogue. We slip in to Urdu to comment on the people around us, those whose judgment in clothing and appearance is beyond questionable. Our comments usually end with, “Gora longa” - white people.

I thought by giving myself a deadline I would be able to do it. It apparently doesn’t work like that. I am confident that I will do it soon. That the “right” moment will arise. I just have to get over myself. Get over my fear. Every time I wanted to say it, I felt paralyzed by that moment of uncertainty that lies after making the statement. It’s that unknown after, that uncharted territory that scares me. It made me doubt the whole course of action, and my whole rationalizing for telling her.

I believe that we take the actions we need to when the time is right. Hopefully, mine will be soon.

Coming Out - Part One

I have a sense of trepidation. I am planning to do it, but I can’t believe that I will do it. I’m slightly scared, as I am about to challenge my status-quo. It’s a long time coming, and I have stalled for long enough. I want to do it, I must do it, it’s inevitable, and will probably help me towards living my life authentically.

I’m planning to come out to my sister tomorrow.

At this point it’s really a formality. How can she not know? She calls me her “brother-sister”, asks me for fashion advice, and no-doubt has seen the gay porn which my computer is riddled with. I don’t not act differently with her, I don’t put up a front, I just simply haven’t told her. And she has never asked. In this fashion we are model South Asians, maintaining a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy; I might as well join the U.S. Navy.

I began my coming out process about eight years ago. First taking the crucial step of admitting to myself I was gay, which I had denied till I was twenty. Till then I had not even permitted myself to think in my head that I liked cock, even though it was a constant fixture in my fantasies. Thinking that I was evil and my orientation was akin to a terminal illness, I told a few of my closest friends. There reaction and taking a course in Queer Theory around the same time, helped me come to terms with my sexuality. I had initially been afraid that they would see me differently and reject me. I felt it was almost profound that after fretting so much over telling them, that after the fact, our relationships continued as normal. The Queer Theory, which I became slightly obsessed with reading, helped me see that homophobia was bullshit, and see the complex ways in which our society organized sexual desire. By the time I graduated from University all my friends knew. I had a low-tolerance for homophobic bullshit and would be quick to read anyone who talked any of that crap around me.

My family has been my final frontier. I am of Pakistani and Muslim background, being out to my family (my parents mostly) would make my life a perpetual torment. When I told my mother I had a girlfriend and that I was going to move in with her (yes, I had a girlfriend while I was gay, an exceptional circumstance which I may reminisce about in a future post) she fainted and pretended to have a heart-attack, while really she was only hyperventilating and I ended up having to take her to the hospital. My father and I don’t have much of a relationship, but I am sure that he would take a confession of my sexuality as further proof as to how much of a horrible person I am, and remind me in not so kind words how much of a disappointment I am to him. And, my brother, well we haven’t really spoken for more than five minutes for the past six years. Once upon a time, we had been close, but he decided that he was going to be a big macho man and that translated into meaning that he was going to be aloof to everyone else in the family.

My little-dear-cute sister, whom I love to death, is the only person in my family whom I feel close with and have a mostly functional relationship with. I have wanted to tell her for years, I feel that it would take our relationship the next level. And, it would be a burden lifted from me, that finally I will have been honest with one person at least in my family.

I am not afraid that she will lash out at me. She is progressive enough to also see homophobia as bullshit. But where she might be progressive, she is also quite simple and likes her world to fit into simple boxes, boxes that are usually shaped from celluloid images from Bollywood and Hollywood movies. She finds challenges to the norm to be hard to digest, and I think on a default impulse wrinkles her nose at them. I remember when I sent her to my hair stylist in the village, she remarked, “he was very funny, but kinda weird. He had a bull-nose piercing.” At the piercing comment she wrinkled up her nose.

At the thought of having this conversation with her tomorrow I feel uncomfortable. And I am sure it may be uncomfortable for a little bit. Hopefully it will go well. Hopefully I will be able to do it, and I won’t put it off, as I have so many other times.

I’m twenty-eight and I can’t believe I am scared of coming out to my twenty-one year old sister.

Getting Ready

I come to consciousness of-sorts and check the time – it’s ten to six - ten minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I lie in that hazy world, in which dreams still linger around, and reality seems a confusion. I have a mild headache, a state to which I have awoken to for the last month. I assume it is because I have not been drinking enough water. I automatically begin composing a list of “twenty things I should do to improve my life”. (1) Drink eight to ten glasses of water a day, (2) Be healthy by exercising and eating good for you foods, (3) Try to act less snobby and condescending. I am stumped and can’t seem to come up with anything else to add to my list. My hand wanders down gripping my erect cock as I intend to wrestle with my manhood, but instead sleep washes over me.

Eight minutes later my alarm is going off, and I pull my hands out of my boxers and press the snooze button. I keep meaning to get up after the next time the alarm goes off, so I can shower, iron the shirt I wanted to wear today, have breakfast, and transfer the Mary J Blige album which I downloaded last night onto my I-pod. I end up waking up with twenty minutes and counting before I must be out the door.

I jump in the shower and lather my hair with Fructise Anti-Dandruff Shampoo, brush my teeth with Glister Toothpaste, wash my body with Dove soap, and clean my face with Nivea Men’s Oil Control Face Wash. I race to my room and rub Life Brand Nut and Honey Body Lotion liberally over myself, apply Adidas Active Anti-Perspirant under my arm-pits, and spray Escape by Calvin Klien over myself.

I slip on my boxers – and quickly select the Mary J Blige album to copy onto my I-pod. I sit on my bed while the album is copying, and contemplate what I want to wear. I want to look cute today, and stare at my closet for ideas. The outfit I had planned before I went to bed requires ironing which is at this point out of the question. I consider wearing this white Polo shirt with pink, black, and blue vertical stripes and black Docker khakis, an outfit which always garners complements. The thing is I wore the Polo shirt last week, and wearing it so soon would break my, no-repeats-within-a-month rule. I feel I have nothing else exciting to wear, and with five minutes left before I must be out the door, I break my rule and don the outfit in question.

I run back to the washroom, style my hair into place with Frucitse Styling Gel, and moisturize my face with Nivea Men’s Oil Control Face Lotion. I have two minutes left at this point and begin frantically looking for my black scarf. After having located the scarf, I put on my black wool Petticoat, grab my black knapsack, I-pod, and cell phone and run downstairs. I seek out my faux-alligator skin loafers and slip them on. I take one last look in the mirror, and smile pleased with the effect I have created for the day. I turn side-ways, making sure the effect holds true from the side profile.

Ready and dressed for success I head out for the start of my work-day.

A Letter

Dear Pussy Ass Bitches,

You are fucking pathetic. You have a sad excuse for a life. You need to go get laid or something – cuz straight-up – why the fuck are you so interested in my life? Are me and my man like super-stars or something – because you make us feel like that – when you spend your free time chatting about our business. You’ve gone and dug up who I slammed 4 years ago, crank called me, sent emails, spread lies, gossip, and study my blog. Shit dude – your fucked – you don’t even know me.

And you’re a mother fucking pussy. Bitch, you saw me at Besharam twice – and you fucking didn’t have the nerve to come chat to my face. You fucking talk shit behind my back but you can’t be a real man and come talk to me. Got shit to say – come say it to my face bitch. Your so fucking outraged – come bring it to me. But you won’t because you’re a little pussy-hole cunt.

I don’t know why your so obsessed with me. You heard how good my dick was and you want some? Or, you heard how sick my mans head is that you wanted in on it? Bitch move on because your ain’t getting any here.

Yeah I am a cheating bastard. But who the fuck are you? Why the fuck do you care so much. Whatever happened – happened between three people. And as far as we are all concerned it’s done. It happened and we ain’t dwelling on the past – so why the fuck are you all up in my shit for? All the shit you’ve done – just makes me laugh. You ain’t affected me any which way – but you sure have made yourself look like a big sad loser fuck. What goes around comes around – yeah I am getting mine – but ever thought bout yourself?

So read this carefully motherfucker – cuz I know you like to study my blog. Fuck – memorize this entry – because when I see you next time – I’m going make you recite this back to me. You got a fucking problem – come say it to my face. Otherwise – get fucking lost and mind your own fucking business. Cuz if this shit goes on – I ain’t gonna ignore you next time.

Go Fuck Yourself,

Dutty

Party for Two

New Years was fucking amazing. One of the best I’ve had, I would have to say.

One of my managers asked me, “What did you do for New Years?”

“I checked into a hotel. The Grand Hotel.” I sway my head to the right as I say the word grand, as if this adds some emphasis to the word.

“Oh, that sounds nice. Did you have a party?” I look at her for a second and pause.

“A party for two.” She smiles at me knowingly.

“Oh my and my ex-husband used to that. It’s the best.”

It was. We checked in on the thirty-first and didn’t leave the premises for another two days. The mood was romantic, and we both had been looking forward to spending some intimate time together. The days seem to melt into a haze of bliss.

Ice was constantly clattering into a glass as we made drinks. We’d say cheers as we had shooters. At regular intervals I’d roll us a doob, or pick up a generous roach from the ashtray. We made the best of the pathetic CD player that was provided, blared tunes, spontaneously busting into dance. I would work my way over to where he was standing, and let him whine his bum cheeks expertly over buddy.

During the whole stay, we only got fully dressed once, for when we went down for breakfast. Otherwise, we sauntered around the hotel room in our underwear. They seemed to come off quite easily, as with steady ease we found are selves falling into long pleasure sessions. The sex was intense and frenzied, but at the same time lazy and leisurely, as we knew that we had no other demands. I emerge from the shower after one session and start talking to him about something, while he sat on the edge of the bed. While in mid-sentence, he pulls down my briefs and I am surprised that I am instantly hard as we just had sex ten-minutes ago.

Highlight of the stay would have to be being on the rooftop terrace in the hot-tub. There were traces of snow outside, but the water was a relaxing hot, and we sat and watched the jumbo-tron screen. We sipped our gin and tonics, taking in an excellent view of the city. Mr. Honey Tongue sat across from me, and under the water his foot was stretched out gently massaging my boys.

Conversation is easy, and we talk about everything under the sun. We joke and have ‘nuff laughs. We tease each other, trying to outdo the other with our sarcastic bitchy humor. Or, we snuggle in silence, muttering in intervals some sweet nothing into the others ears. Everything feels so right, I am just happy and satiated the whole time.

I wake up on the second day of the new year, and feel sad. I whine that I don’t want to leave. He says that he doesn’t want to leave either. I get my things ready, and as we are preparing to leave I want to cry. It’s not fair I think. Our little pretend world has expired, and we return to reality. Reality is that we live in opposite ends of the city with our respective parental units. It also doesn’t help that we have totally opposite schedules.

Must move out this year. Must leave this so-called home. Must regain a life.