Love. Love between men. Love between men older and younger. Love between two men an older atheist and a young Muslim.
1.
I spent most of the summer in the French Alps. Chamonix. It was not my intention. My old friends are enduring a difficult and uncomfortable separation. I was meant to stay for two weeks and ended up staying for two and a half months… unwinding after my MA experience at the Royal College of Art. Applying for residencies and making sense of what I can do next… write or paint or both.
I spent a lot of time on my own in the chalet drawing and writing.
In the morning I would wander into the centre of Chamonix and buy a croissant and some meat and cheese and later have lunch with one of Nicola’s friends. I’d cook dinner. Nicola was often stressed by her divorce lawyers or her child’s demanding diet or a phone call that needed perfect silence. To be fair… the child is recovering from cancer, therefore the entire family are recovering.
Occasionally I’d half heartedly check the various hook up apps on my phone without (thankfully) getting obsessive… obsessed with receiving validating messages from men I knew I would never meet.
One evening the phone buzzed and I get a message from a cheeky, smiling Arab boy…. he’s into chubs and older men.
‘I’m old.’ I send a picture.
I don’t want him to be disappointed and I don’t want to be humiliated by rejection.
“The older the better.” he replies.
The photographs of him are beautiful. He has a million dollar smile, raven black, wavy hair and sparkling brown eyes. I hadn’t met anyone since I arrived in Chamonix so we agreed to meet by the Hotel Pointe Isabelle in the middle of town. I sat waiting on a concrete bollard looking in the direction he says he is coming.
Of course he’s late so I message him and say if he isn’t there in five minutes I’m going home. Despite his tardiness I felt optimistic which was unusual since stopping my antidepressants. It was a warm and balmy night and I knew instinctively he was worth waiting for.
After a few minutes this boy scampers up to me like a big black Labrador puppy. Full of joy and smiling broadly.
“Were you really going to leave?”
He had an American accent and later learned he had brilliantly picked up all the English he knew from TikTok… from kinda black street TikTok. He would say laughingly,
“I’m going to slap the shit out of you.”
He was prone to using other, rather less salubrious epithets. Liberally using the N word. Maybe not so much of a problem in French speaking society but very problematic when, after a few months, he made it to the UK.
“Guess where I’m from?” he said.
I looked at him and guessed Saudi.
“How did you know!”
He wanted me to call him Ricky but I refused. This invented name made him seem like a cheap rent boy. He thought the name made him seem like an angel… a ‘bohemian angel’. His own Arabic name was far grander and so romantic when he said it with his slight lisp.
His family are Bedouins from Mecca. His father is dead… he doesn’t like his step-father. His Mother… a powerful family matriarch.
It was immediately apparent why he craved attention and validation from older men but I guess I chose to ignore it. At that moment in Chamonix I only wanted to see the world through his eyes.
A slightly framed boy who thought he was much tougher than he actually turned out to be.
Moments after I met him he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me into the night. He had a delightful, infectious energy and obviously used to taking control of much older men.
We walked along the banks of the River Arve, a raging, chalky, ice melt torrent that makes its way quickly through Chamonix. When he was sure nobody could see… he kissed me. He held my hand and wouldn’t let it go.
“I am so happy you stayed, you waited for me.”
I asked why he was late, he said… rather too candidly, he had met another man… a French guy but he didn’t speak English and the French guy had tried to bundle him into his car.
“So, if he’d spoken English… we wouldn’t have met?”
“Tomorrow we would have met.”
He kissed me and smiled his magic smile.
We meandered home, stopping along the way for moments of oral pleasure… on the railway bridge for instance… and after that night he never really left my bed until his family vacated their hotel in Chamonix and drove to Austria.
During those first beautiful days we were together he wanted to try everything.
“I feel safe with you.”
He told me he never drank alcohol but wanted to try… so we went to a bar and he drank alcohol for the first time. I sat beside him expecting the worse but he was perfectly fine. Alcohol, pork and sushi… all for the first time. We spent as much time as we could those five beautiful days, enjoying long walks, delicious dinners and great wine.
After his first sip of alcohol he wondered how many sips it would take to make him drunk. It was charming and funny… though, as it turned out, a grim portent.
“I want to feel drunk!”
He left me… after midnight, alone in my bed. Preceded by frantic calls from his family. His Mother would not give him a key to their rental so he had to arrange with her to be let in. He explained they didn’t trust him. They accused him of being secretive.
Most of the men in his family are cops, his step father works for the Saudi secret service. Saudi is one of the most surveilled places in the world. Secrecy is his life and his life was one big secret. It was imperative his family could never get to the truth of his gay life.
Like gay men all over the world he’d learned as a teen to expertly lie about everything, lying to those he loved… perfecting a code of conduct that maintained secrecy at its core. He became a genius at obfuscation.
For him… guarding the truth is a matter of life or death. His earliest memory of seeing a gay man? Watching a video of a young gay man having his head chopped off.
“Before I met you… I’d meet two or three different men every day.” He said, with a disarming giggle.
What sounded funny and innocent in Chamonix became a big problem for both of us when we finally met again: his desire for many men and his crippling adherence to secrecy leading to a destructive double life.
None of that mattered as we enjoyed our time in the French alps. He was very generous with his affection. He told me he loved me over and over.
“I love you so much!”
Love bombed.
“I love you more.”
It was utterly intoxicating. Of course I was aware the LOVE word needed to be taken with a grain of salt… but I wanted to believe it. I wanted it. Every time he used that word. The L word. I wanted it.
Thankfully, the conversation between us was easy. He was curious about everything and I was curious about him. As we grew closer he shared feelings about his gayness, his family, his culture. Sharing feelings was very risky for him because sharing in Saudi culture is a big deal. He believed a man should be discreet about his feelings.
I shared my skin diagnosis with him and he delighted in rubbing the steroid cream into my skin. I felt ashamed of the rash but he taught me to love it. He demonstrated again and again his kindness and compassion. I have never received so many heart emojis… so much love.
What ever story I might have been writing in my head I knew this was a holiday romance, a delicious love story… a short story, not a novel.
After a few days… he was gone.
He left an abyss. A gaping wound where love had been.
I could taste him on my lips… for weeks.
2.
We spoke all day every day after he left, a blizzard of heart emojis. raining down on me as he and his blended family toured Austria, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. Of course I knew he was drinking heavily and meeting men. I never asked too many questions. It was none of my business what he got up to even though I was desperate to know.
Aware of the unmanageability of my love addiction inclination and abandonment issues I paid special attention to my recovery after he left. I attended SLAA meetings to avert what could become a catastrophic obsession… avoiding fantasy and future casting… of course I told myself many times there could be no great love with this Saudi boy. There would be no great love. Why? Because he was young and recently freed from his Saudi bondage. Anyway, his experiences with men were scant and he wanted to improve his ‘body count’.
Thankfully, he knew recounting his many sexual escapades would make me sad. The further away from me… the stranger he became. When he was with other men I thought of him as Ricky. When Ricky arrived in Italy he suddenly stopped communicating and I knew he’d met someone. I missed his calls but he had a greater calling… needs I could not meet.
After a few days of silence he finally started communicating again, he apologised admitting he’d had his head turned. I wasn’t surprised. Of course he was going to meet other men! What irritated me? The quality of the men he was meeting. The way they treated him!
Stephane, his new love, was a nurse from the small city of Verona. He lived in a one bedroom apartment on the edge of town.
Ricky shared his concerns about Stephane. Stephane began making demands on him. Stephane demanded Ricky shave his moustache so he look younger. Stephane demanded they have a three way so he could show Ricky off to his friends. Ricky was determined Stephane was the one. Ricky was desperately trying to make a relationship work with this Italian queen by trying to appease and acquiesce to both sexual demands and harsh criticism.
It was heartbreaking to hear because I’d treated my beautiful boy with such respect and love.
Ricky and his family flew home to Saudi Arabia.
When Ricky returned to Mecca he dutifully assumed his hetero mask, his real name and straight boy activities. He would drive hard and fast with his homies, get into fist fights, hang with his cop cousins and nephews. He showed me where he lived… it was all at once grand and horribly run down. No trees. Brightly lit interiors. A maid waiting to serve him and his family.
He was miserable, desperate to come back to Europe, still obsessed with the nurse.
After a couple of weeks in Mecca discussing the Italian with me and his Irish best friend Harold… he finished with the demanding Italian and told me he’d made a terrible mistake. He wanted me. He realised what love was. I was his boyfriend.
Ricky resumed the relentless love bombing and… I was there for it.
Insanely enmeshed, blinded by love… I embraced my new romantic role with alacrity.
We began planning his covert return to Europe. It took some time for him to accept London as the obvious destination. He wanted to meet in Istambul. In retrospect that might have been a better idea.
He couldn’t tell his family he was travelling to London. His family told him London was very dangerous for Saudis and he would be killed on the streets. Unfortunately, a Saudi youth had been recently stabbed in Cambridge and understandably his family were terrified.
After a tense few weeks of indecision Saud picked up his passport, booked a flight to London and didn’t tell a soul what he was doing.
3.
The day he arrived in London we were both exhilarated and terrified. He stepped into the Heathrow arrivals hall and for the first time in his life he was truly free. Free from his family, free from oppression and free from fear of corporal punishment for being gay.
I had no idea how this would play out although I wanted to encourage him to find himself a gay life, I also wanted him to continue giving me the love he had so freely given in Chamonix.
The first few days were very interesting for us. He loved the weather, the gloomy skies especially. He loved the elegant streets, the parks and different kind of food. It was disappointing he had no interest in art or films or history, no interest in culture but I assured myself I could live without culture for a couple of weeks. The fissures in our relationship became immediately apparent. I ignored the lack of compatibility… believing love would prevail.
I loved him scampering around the house. I loved covering him in kisses when we woke in the morning. I loved his proximity and sexuality. I learned a great deal about his faith. He prayed five times a day. It was beautiful watching him pray. All of his Muslim rituals were beautiful.
He is a dutiful and devoted Muslim.
From the moment he arrived in London Ricky was plagued with calls and text messages from his family. They insisted he return to Saudi… immediately. They threatened him with military service. They wanted pictures and videos and proof he wasn’t lying. His Mother refused to speak to him… terrified he would apply for asylum. His sister thinks he is sick and should get psychiatric help.
We ignore the calls and explore London. I wanted to see the city through his eyes. We walk the length of Brick Lane and eat Indian food. He steps into the Brick Lane mosque but isn’t impressed. He says he feels threatened by the Indians. We find an open mike free styling rap event in Shorditch. I love it. I have no idea if he likes it. He is quiet and tentative in the club. Like many Saudis, I discover… he is very racist. Constantly worried a black or Indian man will steal his phone or beat him up.
He hated people thinking he might be Indian. He hated me describing his cock… as black. It is.
That first week the weather is dry and bright, we walk all over town, traversing the city… pastel de nata from the Lisboa. Bloody Mary’s in The French House.
After a few days of being polite and doing Duncan things he decides to up the ante. He wants more. Very quickly Ricky’s prime motivation became alcohol. He loved buying and drinking a lot of alcohol. Experimenting with alcohol. Shots. Doubles. Pints.
Inevitably he wanted to visit the gay bars in Soho. Ricky wants to experience for the first time… a totally gay environment. So, begrudgingly, I took him into Soho and from Poland Street to Dean Street we had ourselves a little pub crawl through all the hideous, down at heal gay pubs and bars he wanted to visit so badly. These filthy bars had not changed since I was his age, bars I’d made a documentary about at film school.
Back then, people like me thought those old fashioned gay bars with blacked out windows would surely close in favour of new, pride orientated bars with open windows so those glorious, youthful muscle queens could be seen. We were wrong. Those pubs didn’t close… because there would be a perpetual tribe of older gay men holding onto the past, a past which included smelly, sticky West End pubs.
I hoped Ricky might become disinterested in Soho… on the contrary he couldn’t have been happier. He was enchanted. He loved Comptons and The Admiral Duncan, he loved Rupert Street and the Freedom Bar. He was entranced by the men he found there… especially the washed up, elderly men drinking far too much.
He followed an elderly man called Scott, covered in badges into the bathroom and took his number. Scott became the focus of his attention. He didn’t limit himself to bars, there were men on Scruff, the men from Grindr… all eagerly looking forward to meeting him. It turned out Ricky love bombed them all. Sending promises of true love, the beneficent king of a promised land.
In Ricky’s kingdom the bells were ringing, the men were gulping shots, shaving his balls… King Ricky raining heart emojis over them all.
The only obstacle for Ricky, as it turned out… to have the best possible time… was me. The ‘boy friend’. With me he was leashed, without me he could make those old men’s tawdry dreams come true. Their dream of beautiful Arab Ricky who wanted nothing more than a kiss and the promise of true love.
For Saudi Ricky to have a great gay experience where he could fully explore this new world I would have to let him go. Consequently, with my blessing, Ricky checked into an Airbnb in Ebury Street and I told him I’d pick him up in four days hoping he would get out of his system whatever had been yearning to be free. I dropped him off at the hotel and said a brave goodbye.
I genuinely believed, after four long days of drinking double/thrupple/quadruple vodka and red bull in Comptons with trashy alcoholics… he would dash back to me and resume a civilised life. On the fourth day we arranged to meet. I was shocked to see him. He looked like he had been living on the streets. His hair was lank, his skin was muddy and his bright eyes had been dulled by exessive drinking and fucking. His clothes stank of sex and bad aftershave. The concierge at the hotel told me he’d only spent one night in his room.
The night we reconvened I asked what he wanted to do, he told me he wanted me to meet his friends in Soho. Despite my suggesting alternatives he wanted nothing more than to head back into Soho for a drink. When we arrived in Old Compton Street he high-fived the pub security like he was some kind of local gangster.
“I know all of the security.” he boasted.
Running from one bad bar to another as if he had invented bar hopping. Drinking excessively, shot after shot…
“Let’s get the fuck out of here. That’s what we do. We go from bar to bar. You’ll hate it.”
The men with whom he had been consorting winked at him, secret smiles. They fist bumped him. One of them told me Ricky had kissed all of them, spending time in the toilets… having sex. He bought them drinks. Always doubles.
Not wanting me there he tried to force me to drink shots and would feign disappointment when I refused… as if I were betraying him. We were fast becoming strangers. I wasn’t interested in his new world of old bars and he wasn’t interested in my old world of temperance and good conversation. He wanted nothing more to do with me other than texting me from a strangers bed to tell me he loved me. He did the barest minimum to keep access to my life just in case things went badly wrong.
The four days he had been on his own in London he had not budged 200 yards in one street in the West End and he wanted more of the same. Much more. Greedy for more alcohol and more sex. I never socialised with him after that night. I tried but I hated it. I truly hated it and I hated him for his decent into alcoholism.
He would pop home when he wanted something but that something was not me. The sex went from sparkling and beautiful to perfunctory. He was far more interested in the many men he could have than the one man who loved him.
If he stayed over he would have no shame checking my phone. In an attempt to be open, honest and non judgemental I let him see whatever he wanted to see, yet he remained secretive about the endless notifications he received. He became increasingly and sloppily dishonest.
“You’re be angry if you knew the truth.”
I caught him using hook up apps even when I didn’t need to ‘catch’ him because he could do whatever he wanted. He insisted on treating me like I had seen him treat his family when he was in Chamonix.
I’d ask him what he was up to.
“I told them I have a boyfriend so I just kiss them.”
People I know would report on his antics. He became infamous very quickly. Not all of the men appreciated his attention. They knew what he was and told him to keep away. It was humiliating.
“They called me a heartbreaker.” He laughed.
To keep sane I stepped up my Al-Anon and SLAA meetings but he had derision for therapy and for those sharing thoughts and feelings. He asked if I told my various meetings about him… he asked every day if I had been talking about him.
By the end of the second week he was spending £250 or more a night on alcohol. Buying drinks for the men at the bar. He announced alcohol was no longer working and he wanted something stronger. A day later he had white residue around his nostrils. I cannot and will not tolerate drugs. I don’t give a damn if he had been kept on a tight leash. Drugs were out of the question for me to be around. Of course he denied taking drugs. His demeanour told me the truth.
Ricky and Harold
His friend Harold of 3 years arrived from Ireland, a charming and intelligent man, my age or older. An award winning architect this was the first time he had met Ricky. Harold gave me something real to hang onto in this increasingly dirty and miserable situation. We had a lovely lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant, chatting about normal things whilst Ricky would hug and caress Harold.
“Does me hugging Harold make you jealous?”
When he stayed at Harold’s lodging he said,
“We didn’t have sex. We just hugged.”
I realised I had stepped in dog shit. He was like stepping in dog shit.
The penultimate night of his visit, Harold gone… he called me from Old Compton Street at 2am to say he would be back in a few minutes and could I open the door? I waited for him until 4am. When I opened the door, he smiled like he was some cute kid who made a silly mistake… he tried hugging me so I might forgive him but I felt nothing.
“Why didn’t you stay with your friends?”
“They didn’t want me in their houses.” He said.
A quiet rage was building in me. A rage that would sadly spill into the following morning.
“Why didn’t you get a hotel?”
He started to snore as the sun came up. I couldn’t sleep… seething with resentment. He was laying beside me stinking of alcohol, drugs and other men. Laying there in my fucking bed after I had for so many years carefully protected myself from this kind of person. This kind of scum. He had morphed from a gentle, kind and loving man into the worst of everything I hate about gay life.
This is what gay life does to some people.
I am laying beside him praying I might forgive him, forgive myself.
At 11am I woke him and asked what he wanted to do our final day together. Would he like to go have dinner in Shorditch? He dismissed the idea we might spend time together. He had already made plans with his new friends.
At that moment my fury boiled over. I tipped him out of bed. Why are you staying with me? Why didn’t you stay in the Airbnb? I angrily stripped the bed of the stinking sheets. I told him to leave. I’m raging. I’m frightened I might hit him. This slight boy who thinks he’s a fucking heavy weight boxer. He sneered at me and I slapped his face. Get out of the house. Get the fuck out! Ricky shuffled downstairs and out of the door and that was that.
It was over.
Goodbye Saudi Ricky.
That afternoon I had drinks with a Saudi friend from the RCA. I shared my experience. It came as no surprise to my friend.
“Saudis are arrogant, that’s the way they are.”
I felt bad about my temper. I felt ashamed I’d let anger get the better of me.
That night I had dinner with PH at the Chelsea Arts Club. It was a wonderful evening. I roared with laughter. It felt so good to laugh with a very old friend.
I’d thought about going into Soho and finding him but what was the point? He would be too drunk to hear my apology.
The following day I took the tube to Heathrow and waited until he turned up at departures. He looked terrible. I apologised for my bad behaviour… knowing I would never see him again. I hoped he would be safe in Saudi and his family would forgive him.
“I forgive you.” He said. And I forgive you Saudi Ricky.
We had two hugs. Nothing like the first time I hugged him. Nothing like the love I had once felt from him. He shuffled off toward the gate and I didn’t look back.
