Koolaids (19 page)

It got worse for me as this singer with a gorgeous voice came on singing Porter's “So in Love.” It's a newer version I had never heard. I remembered how Ella sang it. I used to love it as a girl. When I was eleven, I was singing it when my father came into the room. He listened to what I was singing. He came over and slapped my face. He told me never to sing about love again. I was furious in the car. I got so upset because he was so stupid. I got so upset because I missed him so. When the song was over on the radio, the announcer said this singer recorded the song to raise money for AIDS. I had to stop the car and cry.

…

I had this story idea for a book. I had always been fascinated by the mythology of Jesus, even though I was born a Muslim. The book would lay out the life of the main protagonist, from birth to death, as a modern parallel to Jesus.

The main character—let's give him a real Muslim name, Ali—is born in Lebanon, the only son to his mother and father. The birth is miraculous. The mother was told she could never have a child. Ali grows up in an environment with an absent father—he works a lot—and a doting mother. A fairly typical upbringing for a mother-complected homosexual.

Childhood is relatively boring. We leave the story until his thirtieth birthday. He is living in the States. He has been infected with the virus, but is asymptomatic still. He has to be doing something dramatic. I would have made him a painter, but that is too obvious.

Let's have him be a fairly accomplished violinist. Through his exquisite playing he is able to move people to tears. He has a following.

One of his followers, a close friend, suggests that he should go back to Beirut and make peace with his father. He does. The father then sacrifices his son. He has him kidnapped in Beirut.

The final scene would have Ali tied spread-eagled, naked, face down on a bed. The father walks in. There are two kidnappers in the room. He tells his son what a disappointment he has been. He tells him maybe, if he dies, people would forget about his homosexuality. He nods at one of the kidnappers, who takes out a long knife. The description has to be subtle in pointing out the phallic implications. He then proceeds to stab the son between the shoulder blades. The father watches.

The father takes his son's bloodied corpse, wailing that he has been killed. Ali's mother, his only true love, cradles the corpse. Ali's death has exactly the consequence his father wanted. Ali becomes the most loved musician, a messiah. His father is idolized as the progenitor of a genius.

The book is written in the first person. It would be interesting to write, as the main character, the description of the knife stabbing me. I die. I find that so powerlul. As the protagonist, I would be able to say, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”

Scott did not like the idea. He thought it was obvious, axiomatic.

…

I woke up hearing Marwa talking on the phone. She was crying. My sister was trying to understand what was happening.

It seemed Marwa's mother had talked to mine. They were not close friends, having little in common. Marwa's mother spent most of her time comforting Samir's mother after her son's death. My mother wanted nothing to do with it. It seemed that Najwa thought my mother should come over here and visit. She told my mother she had lost all three of her boys. My mother had already lost two. She should not allow the third to leave without saying good-bye. My mother said she considered that she had already lost three sons. It was easier that way. She always wore black.

Marwa told Nawal my mother was a bitch.

From my bed, all I could scream was “No.”

…

The young driver opens the door of the white Range Rover. They whiz through all the checkpoints. The drive to Kaslik takes only about twenty minutes. The driver goes through a gate and parks in front of a hilltop house, overlooking the Mediterranean. The house is secluded.

The door opens as soon as the car arrives. He is waiting for her. He greets her with the perfunctory cheek-to-cheek kiss. He tells the driver to leave, he does not need him this evening. She thinks of complaining, explaining that she needs to go back later on. She decides against it. Why pretend? They both know her husband is out of town.

He leads her into the house. She is impressed. The view is breathtaking. She mentions it. He suggests they go out onto the verandah to watch the sunset. He pours both of them a Scotch. The Lebanese national drink. They both laugh. He brings the bottle with them as they sit to watch the sunset.

“I am glad you came,” he says.

He is beautiful. She knows many men who are probably much more handsome, none as beautiful, though. She has never felt this way about a man.

“I'm scared,” she says.

“I can see that.” He smiles.

“I'm sorry.” She laughs nervously. “I can't believe I'm here.”

She tries to keep her eye on the view. He keeps his eyes on her. He refills her glass.

“You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am. Only a little.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. She nods. A brief kiss. It tingles. She looks at him again. He does it again. This time, he touches her face. Tears roll down her face.

“He doesn't kiss you, does he?”

“Do we have to talk about him?”

“Just one question. When was the last time he made love to you?”

“Eight years ago.”

She stands up and undresses herself in the open air. He looks at her, surprised. She wants approval. He smiles. He pulls her onto his chair. He begins the process.

…

In the name of God, the most compassionate, the most merciful:

23. But she in whose house he was, sought to seduce him from his (true) self: she fastened the doors, and said: “Now come, thou (dear one)!” He said: “(Allah) forbid! truly (thy husband) is my lord! he made my sojourn agreeable! truly to no good come those who do wrong!”

24. And (with passion) did she desire him, and he would have desired her, but that he saw the evidence of his Lord: thus (did We order) that We might turn away from him (all) evil and shameful deeds: for he was one of Our servants, sincere and purified.

25. So they both raced each other to the door, and she tore his shirt from the back: they both found her lord near the door. She said: “What is the (fitting) punishment for one who formed an evil design against thy wife, but prison or a grievous chastisement?”

26. He said: “It was she that sought to seduce me—from my (true) self.” And one of her household saw (this) and bore witness, (thus): “If it be that his shirt is rent from the front, then is her tale true, and he is a liar!”

27. “But if it be that his shirt is torn from the back, then is she the liar, and he is telling the truth!”

…

“I made two thousand dollars last week.”

“I don't want to hear about it,” I say.

“No, Kurt, seriously. I am making a lot of money. Yesterday this man paid me a hundred dollars just to suck on my nipple for twenty minutes until he jerked himself off.”

“I don't want to hear about it, Ben. I really don't.”

He takes off his shirt and shows me his chest. “See anything different?” he asks.

“Huh?” is all I can come up with.

“See anything different?” he insists.

“How the fuck would I know?”

“I got rid of the KS scars.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried freezing the scars. That worked, but it took a lot of time to heal. I now tattoo them.”

“Tattoo?”

“Yeah. I tattoo the scars so nobody can tell. You know, tattoo them with my own skin color.”

…

Marital intercourse is certainly holy, lawful and praiseworthy in itself and profitable to society, yet in certain circumstances it can prove dangerous, as when through excess the soul is made sick with venial sin, or through the violation and perversion of its primary end, killed by mortal sin; such perversion, detestable in proportion to its departure from the true order, being always mortal sin, for it is never lawful to exclude the primary end of marriage, which is the procreation of children.

Saint Francis de Salle, not the real Saint Francis with the cute birds and animals, wrote that in his book
Introduction to the Devout Life,
which talked about how bad sex was in four large volumes. It earned Francis here a sainthood. All I can say is, I am glad I'm not Christian. For us Muslims, we just stone adulterers to death, which is much more humane than guilt.

…

My brother Ibrahim was three years older than I. He was my closest brother in age. By the time I had left Lebanon in 1975, he was a member of the Murabitoun party, a leftist organization. I never realized he had become a member of their militia till he was killed a year later, one of the few attackers of Damour to actually fall. My father never forgave himself for letting my brother get so involved in the war. I was sixteen, in Los Angeles, away from it all.

…

When he kissed her, she kissed back. She tried to take his shirt off, but he had begun to move down. When he kissed her down there, a first, her body went rigid. When his tongue penetrated her, she lost control. Her hands instinctively went to hold his head in place. Her body rearranged itself to open up to his assault.

She had been naïve.

He spent an eternity down there. She kept calling for her mother. His tongue kept moving. She felt herself climaxing. She shook. She wept. He kept going. He looked up at her. “One more?” He smiled. She nodded, pleading. His tongue went back to work. She called for Mohammad.

She had been so na
ï
ve.

He moved back up. She tasted herself in his kiss. She tore his shirt off. He pulled his pants down. She held it in her hands. Too big. He penetrated her slowly. She wept. He didn't stop kissing her. Every time he moved out, she tried pushing him back in. Her nails dug into his back. She tried to swallow his tongue. He pulled back and looked straight into her eyes. He smiled. She could not stop smiling. She was his.

…

Sex is the last refuge of the miserable.

Quentin Crisp said that to Joan Collins, when he walked in on her having sex with Linda Evans. To cover up his embarrassment, he blurted out that statement, which made him famous all over again. And he should know.

…

I was horny. I walked into Badlands. I walked out with a boy. I took him home and fucked him silly. Great ass. He could not get enough. I fucked him three times. He wanted more. I wanted to sleep. I woke up to find him skewered on my dick. Sleepy as I was, my hips got into their ancestral rhythms.

“You're HIV-positive,” he said.

“Yes, I told you that long before we got here. You said it was okay.”

“No,” he said, “I never heard it. I didn't know. I wouldn't have done what we did.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I told you yesterday and you said you didn't care, as long as it was safe.”

“I don't remember that.”

“Fuck this shit. Don't worry about it, babe, we were completely safe. Now get the fuck out of here.”

I went to a tattoo parlor. I had them tattoo a large HIV+ on my chest, above my left nipple. No one can now claim I never told them.

I was asked by
ArtNews
to pose for a closeup photo of my chest with the tattoo. They thought it was an artistic statement. I did. The picture made the cover.

…

In the name of God, the most compassionate, the most merciful:

52. Now such were their houses—in utter ruin—because they practiced wrong-doing. Verily in this is a Sign for people of knowledge.

53. And We saved those who believed and practiced righteousness.

54. (We also sent) Lut (as an apostle): behold, He said to his people, “Do ye do what is shameful though ye see (its iniquity)?”

55. Would ye really approach men in your lusts rather than women? Nay, ye are a people (grossly) ignorant!

56. But his people gave no other answer but this: they said, “Drive out the followers of Lut from your city: these are indeed men who want to be clean and pure!”

57. But We saved him and his family, except his wife; her We destined to be of those who lagged behind.

161. Behold, their brother Lut said to them: “Will ye not fear ((Allah))?

162. “I am to you an apostle worthy of all trust.

163. “So fear Allah and obey me.

164. “No reward do I ask of you for it: my reward is only from the lord of the Worlds.

165. “Of all the creatures in the world, will ye approach males,

166. “And leave those whom Allah has created for you to be your mates? Nay, ye are a people transgressing (all limits)!”

…

There is nothing safe about sex. There never will be.

Norman Mailer told me that. He really was talking about his archnemesis, Truman. There is nothing safe about reading one of Norman's books. They induce narcolepsy. Do not drive, or operate heavy machinery while reading a Mailer book. Unless it is a good Mailer book, then all bets are off.

…

“Why do you have a gun under your pillow?” she asks.

“I have guns all around. Just in case.”

He was lying in his bed holding her, her head on his chest, his left hand playing with her ass.

“Ouch,” she moans.

“Does that still hurt? I'm sorry.”

“Oh, don't stop. I like it.”

“I thought you would.” He laughed. He kissed her again. “When I first saw your picture, I knew you'd be a good fuck.”

“When?”

“About a year ago. You were in the magazine
Ash Shabake.
It was a picture of you next to the asshole. You looked like you could use a good fuck.”

“Do you always have to use that word?”

“Yes.” He smiled.

“Have you killed people?”

“Are you sure you want to talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Oooh, haven't you had enough?” she asks.