Listen to my interview on “Life in Beirut”

So I recently met with the cool Harry Darkins, journalist and producer at RFI, and chatted with him about gay life in Beirut, as part of the “Life In Beirut” series. Check out the interview below or on the RFI website:

http://www.english.rfi.fr/middle-east/20150407-life-Beirut-Lebanon-gay-LGBT

Spoiler alert: I say Lebanese Penal Code 543 instead of 534. Sorry, Helem. “543” just sounded better.

My Epic Grindr Fails

You know how it goes:

– You chat with someone

– They turn out to be an idiot

– You screenshot the chat and send it to your friend on Whatsapp

So allow me to present some of my most epic fails in recent history. (And when you’re done, check out other cool ones here)

Want your own epic chat fails to be featured on this blog?

Send a screenshot of the fail to: therealshit11@gmail.com

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Stay tuned for more…

Happy hunting!

You Fucking Idiot

So yesterday, Lebanon and I had one thing in common: we both got fucked.

Lebanon was hit by the Zeina storm (floods, strong wind, billboards falling on the street, Byblos port practically drowning) and I… was struck by sickness.

As I lay in my bed sneezing my ass off, covered under two piles of blankets, I started experiencing what any red-blooded mammal experiences when they’re this sick and cold: the love blues.

You know how it is. You might think of a past relationship, the reasons why it didn’t work out, or how, if the circumstances were different, he would have been snuggling with you and massaging your head as the outside world falls apart. It’s basically a pathetic moment. Absolutely normal. But pathetic.

That’s when my dad enters the room. I don’t know how he built the courage to enter that germ fest, but he does. And I know exactly what he’s gonna do. It’s something he’s been doing since I was born. He walks towards my bed, lifts up the two blankets covering my legs, and caresses my freezing feet. In an instant, I go from 27 to 5 years old, and giggle out loud like a child.

Then I think to myself: “You idiot. You fucking idiot”.

I’m craving that love and affection from a man who consciously chose to walk out of my life, when there’s an unconditional love lying in the other room, which I’ve neglected. That 27-year-in-the-making love that doesn’t check your text messages, get jealous, or emotionally abuse you. That kind of love that just wants you to be happy.

Now sure, there are some things a parent can’t offer. Like my dad will not go down on me when I have morning wood. But it’s good to recognize the purity of that “original” love. The feelings you have for your parents, your sister, your brother… that’s also love. It’s probably the longest-lasting love you’ll ever have. And that’s fucking awesome.

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on the line

As I stand next to my sleeping grandpa in the hospital, I feel stupid.

It’s Friday night and I just got out of work where I had been stressing out the whole week.

“Am I good enough?”

“Will I deliver everything on time today?”

“I CAN’T leave before coming up with something creative”

All this stress. All these worries. These insecurities. As if that’s what’s important,  you know?

I look at my grandpa’s stitches on his head. That’s what matters.

He’s not wakin up. That’s what’s real.

His life. That’s what’s on the line.

He’s been sleeping for 7 days straight. Yeah that’s sad. But I’m just as comatose as he is. Blinded by the things I think are important.

I know what’s important.  Family. Health. Relationships are important. Briefs, work, clients, come second.

As I help them carry my grandpa on the stretcher to do yet another scan…seeing him in pain… I tear up. Sad… but ironically, it’s the first sincere raw human emotion I showed all week. It’s the most… important… thing I did all week.

Kareem (part 5 of 10)

Continued from Part 4

kareem 5

You know that feeling when you’re really asleep, but you feel awake? Halfway between sleeping and waking? You feel paralyzed. And you’re begging for someone to kick you so you wake up cause you don’t have the strength to do it on your own. You try moving your mouth. Your lips. You scream on the inside. You want to wake up. But nothing you do seems to work.

That’s what’s happening to me right now.

I can feel it coming. It’s right on time. The nightmare I have every other week.

Blood on the kitchen floor. A gun in her hand. My 13 year old self screaming at the top of my lungs. Calling for help. Knocking on the neighbors’ doors so they can do something to help me. Leaving bloody footsteps behind me. Grabbing the phone with my shaky hands and calling dad. Only to realize that he’s dead.

That was the day I lost all my innocence. I went from 13 to 20 in a gunshot. Taking care of her. Being the parent. Until I could it no more. Until it was just too much.

It’s weird. This nightmare I’m having is actually better than the crippling feeling I have right before it. It’s actually soothing. I’ve seen this nightmare so many times before that it feels normal. I know exactly what’s gonna happen. I’ve seen it all before. How can it be a nightmare if I’ve lived it before?

I can feel something on my leg. Must be Bisi. She can probably hear my meaningless mumblings and is trying to wake me up. It works. I wake up all sweaty, with my right leg cramped, and I look at her. She knows I’m in pain.

“Yep. Her again”.

Bisi was there that day. She probably saw more of it than I did. I wonder if she has nightmares about it too. Do animals dream anyway?

I take a sip of water from the cup I always keep next to my bed and realize it’s only 7 pm. Weird, it’s so dark outside. I was so tired after I came home from the HIV test that I slept all afternoon. Now I have to study and get some homework out of the way. That is if I can focus; Joe is still not replying to my messages and isn’t pickin up the phone. But I have to.

I take a hot long shower to refocus my energy.

As I dry myself, the door rings. It’s the electricity man coming to collect his bill.

“67,000 Liras”.

“Yalla, one second”.

I get my wallet and start lookin for money. Then my wallet falls on the floor. Also flying to the floor are three 500 lira coins and two condoms. The poor 60 year old bends over and helps me pick up my shit, only to realize they’re condoms.

I grab my wallet. “Here’s 70,000”.

“So you need 3,000 from me”, he replies.

“No need”. The man’s been through enough already. “Thank you”, I say.

He calls the elevator, wait for him to get in, then go back inside and wear some socks.

Then the door knocks again. Who could it be? Is it the electricity man wanting to borrow a condom?

I walk to the door and open it.

I wasn’t expecting him.

Joe.

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Read Part 6 here.

Follow me on Twitter or Facebook to get updated on the latest parts.

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31 Going on 25.

When I was 13, I couldn’t wait to grow up.

Now that I did (in some ways), I kinda wish I didn’t.

I don’t wanna be the cliché. I don’t wanna say it’s scary to get older. Because really, it’s just a number.

That said, I just wanna stay 25 forever.

As I get older, my parents get older, my grandparents get older. It’s hard to see people you love grow old, wrinkly, and fragile. There are so many things we still didn’t do. We didn’t travel the world together. I didn’t buy my dad that car he always wanted. It’s true: time flies so quickly. I’m turning 26 in a couple of months, and maybe it’s not the number that scares me. Maybe it’s the reminder that there’s so much more to be done…as that damn clock keeps ticking.

So enough with the drama. Enough with me being a total cliché. 🙂

What’s up with grown ass gay men nagging about growing old?!

Kidding.

What’s up with grown ass gay men lying about their age?

You’re 31. Everyone knows you’re 31. All of the men you’ve slept with on Manjam know you’re 31. You’re sexy. You’re good looking. You don’t look 31. And yet you refuse to grow old and you lie about your age.

You have multiple profiles on multiple dating sites, each one showing a different age. On Manjam, you’re 31. On GayRomeo, you’re 25. Bitch, please. You were 25, SIX YEARS AGO.

I know I have yet to deal with growing up, but I would never lie about my age when I’m 31. Fuck that shit. I’d post a sexy pic of me and show these 25 year olds that they have nothing on this 31 year old hot piece of ass.

But at the same time, I kinda get it.

I hooked up with this 31 year old guy last month. Or so I thought.

During the date, he confessed that he’s way older than 31.

35? Nope.

37?!?! Nope.

He was 40. Which was absolutely shocking cause he didn’t look a day over 30. It was also shocking cause I had to admit to myself that I was wrong. I was wrong to judge people who lie about their age. Because, seriously… if that guy had told me he was 40 years old, I would have NEVER went out on a date with him or even chatted with him. I’m glad he lied. It was the best sex of my life.

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Pic sources: 12

1 Second Away. 100 Years Apart.

Found these two buildings on the same street in Nasra (Achrafieh).

They’re legit right next to each other. But one has flowers and a tree and looks so beautiful and vintage. And the other is bullet-holed and half-painted.

That’s the charm of Beirut, I guess.

You’d be looking at something so beautiful one second, and something so ugly right after. And you learn to appreciate them both at once.