Sparky and I power athletically down the street as she smokes her last and rants impassioned about the government's taxation of cigarettes:
"Those fucking bureaucratic assholes... how can those fuckers look themselves in the mirror? Their dicks are covered in prostitutes and their wives are covered in veils."I rented her apartment for the first month I was in Istanbul, that's how we had met. Foucault, writings about sex and addiction, and Indie-Art House DVDs were on the selves, art with a disturbing rawness graced the walls, the kitchen was stocked, I immediately felt at home in her space. When she came back from her annual hibernation / artistic pilgrimage in Canada (not unlike my time in Turkey), we met in person and discovered we were kindred spirits. We've been close since. She hooked me up with a room next door with Hot Chip, making us both friends and neighbors.
"I had never taken a shit that smelled so good, and so I had to ask myself: why?! Why did it smell so good? Tropical, even."The thing about Sparky is that she is fascinating. I think most people are interesting, but she is fascinating. She has a power about her and a way of story telling that is all-engrossing, her energy is intoxicating.
"It turns out that we had been using coconut butter as lube. That explained everything."She captivates a room with her hijink-riddled stories of misbehavior -- best that they should hear it. Let them live vicariously.
"So on Christmas I took it up the ass with greasy, chunky, coconut cream. Which brings me to my point: no one, I mean no one, can tell me that I am not a giving lover."
The first time I heard the story of surprise coconut lube, we were somewhere on the Asian continent. She was very excited about its telling and she often rested her head on my shoulder. Still, despite her marked increase of affection and enthusiasm, I didn't realize she was rolling. The second time, we were at a cafe club that looked like Barbie's psyche and we were both rolling. It looked as though teenagers had barfed pink glitter on the walls. We laughed a lot.
"So this Sultan, Osman... I can't remember which, Osman Whatever II, had his vizier bring him women as his lokum, yani, his little treat, whatever, that part is normal, but he made him bring fat women, the fatter the better, then after fucking them he would have them killed as he watched. Fucked up, eh? He wanted his women to be like cattle, so fat they looked like cattle, then killed like cattle, he insisted on it."
"That's some fucked up snuff shit right there."
"Cattle fetish, man!"Loud rants like these in public places are an example of many reminders that Istanbul is not Cairo. Thank God, il humdulilah. In this city, Sparky and I can go to LGBT events and get wasted without fearing for our lives. We dance together, gyrating closely to industrial electro music, and it happens to not be the most dramatic thing in the room. We end up in drunken strip tease induced group sex, and it feels natural. We don't have to stress ourselves out about it. But that last part, the ease of interaction, maybe has less to do with the environment and more to do with the individuals.
In California, my dear friend Texas had made somewhat of a habit of seducing me when she was intoxicated (and that she frequently was). I remember her Russian Hill apartment on the night of her birthday, an evening she had fiercely declared as LADIES NIGHT: she was prone on her couch and I was eating her, fingering her as she tried to silence her moans for the sake of her guests asleep in the next room. But it was her birthday, I had to do what she wanted. Though I had baked her a cake, I owed the pleasure to her, she said. She demanded an orgasm by my tongue, and she felt that due to it being the anniversary of her birth, she deserved it -- a reward for living as long as 24 years on this earth. That night a group of ten of us or so had gotten all dolled up in tight, short, glistening tubes of dresses, our unattainable bitch costumes, and we traveled in a pack. Now these slut suits were pushed up and pulled awry, she was begging for me to make her cum. Unlike my girl friend in high school, she clearly wasn't playing in an act to colloquially claim to experience or to arouse cocks inserting themselves in fantasy. This was her fantasy. She begged, and begged, until she came in my mouth.
Whatever the problem, she created a seemingly insurmountable distance between us, characterized by an extremely frustrating absence of communication of any kind. Torturing as this silence seems, it's the best show of my love for her that I can offer by allowing the space for as long as she needs. If she feels like telling me about it one day, I'll gladly listen.
When I was in college, sexuality columnist Dan Savage from Seattle's publication The Stranger treated the student body to an interactive lecture. While it was mostly give-and-take, he stated at least one thing quite definitively that has since stuck with me: bisexuals don't exist. Men are either gay or straight -- if they say they are bi, they are simply doing their best to adjust to the truth -- and women's sexualities are so fluid that it's pointless to label their preferences at any given time as if they will be sustained for a lifetime. By the way, Dan Savage has since written columns revising his previously stated opinion on bisexuality, making a little more effort these days to tread lightly on the eggshell egos of the community and fight personal accusations of bi-phobia. Regardless of his current stance, at the time he brought to light for me the pressure to identify oneself with a sort of inferred judgement, even or especially within the LGBT community. Sometimes it seems to come down to the following questions:
"Do you qualify for straight privilege?"
"Do you qualify for homosexual acceptance?"
"Why are you so insistent on being so fucking difficult?"
I wonder if not quite being able to put a finger on the fluidity of female sexuality actually makes it easier for someone like me to accept, while this invisible pill is nearly impossible for someone like Texas to swallow.
Doesn't bother Sparky. And this isn't the first time I've been "with" a female in an Islamic country. Seems funny to me, somehow, but perhaps I shouldn't judge a country by its Qur'an.
For more antics with Sparky, check out the post Hunting Bambi.
Curious about LGBT in Turkey? Read THIS.
Find the latest from Seduce and Confuse HERE.