Riding a Persian’s Carpet
Scott Capurro
March, 2007
Persians are tough to get into bed, but by the time you do snag one, they’re so desperate to have sex they’ll do just about anything. Like most religious fanatics, Muslims spend a lot of time imagining what fucking might feel like, so anything I can do would be anticlimactic, which has nothing to do with my orgasm as I’m pounding that round, hairy ass.
I shoot for the classy ones, the early retirees, the Omar Sharif types who are out shopping for their wives, but a shop owner’s son will do, as long as he’s clean and quiet. I don’t do tears, and they can’t use my phone. But I’m not racist. I’d let them fuck me, but they always come so fast. Like the Palestinian I met in Bayswater. Or the Arab. Or whatever they’re calling themselves this week. The enemy. Smiling wildly, he barely had the condom on before he exploded. The event was reminiscent of my adolescence – it was over before it started.
Still I soldier on, ignoring my white friends’ warnings. They’re terrified of Muslims, because the Guardian says the Koran is homophobic. No, the Tories are homophobic. The Koran is reactionary, which is hot and, like any military intervention, rife with both apologies and butt play. Forget about the 72 Virgins. They’re a passing mention. What the Koran stresses is that, in death, one will be surrounded by boys as beautiful as pearls. And boy pearls are worth diving for.
All the airplay Muslims get is tough on my self-esteem. Blair says they’re everywhere, but I’m only averaging one a month. Maybe I should be more territorial, blocking the automatic door at Budgens. Muslims seem to respond well to such threats. Or I could mention my affinity for the Jews. That would at least spark conversation, but usually when I sit at those horrible smoking cafes, the men ignore me. Verbally. They stare at me with mild disdain, like I’m a hooker, and I can’t tell if they want to kill me or fuck me. Now I’m bragging.
Anticipation I save for Oscar night. My Muslim cock gratification is immediate. And finally ‘Arabiam’ speaks, or writes, online.
“Why do you want me?”
Ah, the victim-y tones of the fashionably oppressed.
“I just do. Why ask why?”
“Don’t you think it’s just a bit wrong, your objectification of my race?”
I pause, feeling overwhelmed by the banality, like I’ve stumbled into IKEA. We’re both on line, in the ”Mixed Buffet” chat room, where one might venture for a brown dish, so, to me, the foreplay is over. Or is this accusatory chat leading to something else?
“Which race are you? Last I looked, we were both human.”
“You know what I mean.”
No, really, I don’t, and if I did, I wouldn’t say. Aren’t my reasons my own? Since 9-11, everyone thinks their opinions are of equal importance, but they’re not. My opinion matters to me the most, and my opinion is this: Friends are for therapy, and you, my young brownie, are not a friend. You’re not even a fetish. You’re a past time, like I am to you. So let’s just fucking get on with it, and the next time I need an analytical study of my sexual motives, I’ll dial the Christian Right.
The blandly born-again Blair has painted a terrorists target around Britain, terrifying the English and fanning racial hatred. To cool critics, he feigns religious tolerance, which is misguided and from an American perspective, 500 years too late. The English expelled the Puritans for wearing too much black, but when some cunt kills his daughter to save the family’s status, we have to learn to understand?
No, we don’t. Britain is a secular society; if you live here you accept liberalism as the norm. If you want paranoid theology, move to America, where even health care is suspect.
To the Arab boy I write, “I like your brown eyes. All three of them.”
His response: “LOL”
Thank God. I’m not up to a Jihad this afternoon, although I can be gagged into just about anything.
This strife makes me pity the Jews. Again. They must feel despised in Britain, because the British are more tolerant toward the Muslims than they are Israel, and EVERYONE here hates the Muslims. Makes me want to take a Jew boy in my arms and cradle him. My loyalty to Mohammed flails, as I waddle toward the gay synagogue in Hampstead.
Talk about fickle. But when you’re gay and 44, every day is a Christmas rush.