Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  M&M was late. He arrived on the way back from a business trip with a bag full of gifts, which he chose to give me in private before buzzing off again in his Porsche. I had a sneaky peek and realised it was lingerie! Expensive lingerie, I might add, of the smooth, silky black kind, complete with suspenders. No one’s ever given me lingerie before — except Mum, when she bought me a rather sexy slip to go under a skirt, from Oxfam. I’ll enjoy modelling it (when I’m drunk and all thoughts of my sagging arse are suitably blurred).

  I thought it was very sweet of M&M to come, even though he clearly had to get home because it was late. But he knows about my ‘party issues’ so obviously didn’t want me to think he’d forgotten, or didn’t care. He also told me he’s got a massive surprise for me, and I should keep next weekend completely free. Hmmm. It’s all really very exciting at the moment! I’m starting to think the real party-that-never-was might just be about to start!

  10/11

  Ever seen a wheelchair float?

  Oh, what treats for my birthday week! Today I got invited to an Aston Martin party, a free bra fitting, including a free bra of my choice (more lingerie — always handy), a laser show on the roof of a new building, and a shopping and Christmas carols evening in the Wafi rooftop gardens (they’re getting in early). Wafi is a great building by the way. It’s a luxurious shopping mall shaped like a pyramid. Surprisingly there’s hardly ever anyone in there, and I was told by a feng shui expert the other week at a press lunch that this is because a pyramid actually acts as a vortex and all the good energy gets sucked back out of the top. I’m not too sure what to think about that. I think the lack of custom probably has something more to do with the fact that everything inside costs about 100,000 dirhams.

  There’s also a dinner at the newly opened Raffles hotel coming up, and my second foray onto public radio — did I mention I spoke on a live show to support the launch of the website? Yes, Stanley made it happen, even though I’m supposed to be desk-bound. I just talked about celebs and stuff in the mid-morning spot and I really enjoyed it. And they asked me to come back. It’s something I haven’t had the chance to do since university, so I’m hoping I don’t screw it up. I’m told it went OK the first time, anyway — M&M diligently tuned in and gave me some honest feedback when we met up later, even though Stanley failed to mention anything about it whatsoever when I got back to the morgue.

  In spite of all this cool stuff, one of my particular favourite pieces of news this week comes in the form of a press release entitled ‘Floating wheelchair canal race'. Open it up and it reads:

  Ever seen a wheelchair float?

  Little Wings Foundation, a project dedicated to assisting children with deformities and obtaining funding for the medical treatment, has teamed up with Reaching U’s goal to bring awareness and acceptance of children with special needs to society. Teams of four will paddle it out to create awareness of children with disabilities. Free entertainment will be provided on the terrace.

  I just think that’s brilliant. I mean, it conjures up all kinds of things in one’s imagination. As if it’s not enough that the emirate’s families might well be hooting and hurrahing at our disabled, disfigured friends as they paddle downstream for dear life, the organisers have promised even more ‘free entertainment’ on the terrace after the race. What joys! One can only hope it entails dragging each soggy participant out by their ears, sponging them off and then walking in circles around each one, judging them according to their disabilities and the amount of time it takes the ones who don’t actually drown to complete the challenge. I can hardly wait.

  Of course, I am aware that the press release might well have been written in a rather misleading fashion — as are so very many here. Perhaps the contestants that are encouraged to form these teams and float down a canal in a heavy, metal chair don’t have to be disabled at all. Of course, they probably will be by the time they’ve attempted this race, but that’s a whole other matter entirely.

  I’m not sure I’ll be attending this one, although I’ll most certainly tell everyone else, via the website. It was so very nice of them to invite me. Keep the invites coming, I say!

  17/11

  The kebab cake, and other surprises …

  The birthday rooftop pool extravaganza was, in the end, supervised by the building’s two anal security guards, who spent the night picking up plastic cups and eyeing us all in annoyance like parents at a four-year-old’s birthday party. It was rather irritating as they told us we could have the party and then on the night informed us we had to be off the roof by midnight. What party finishes at midnight, I ask you?

  Still, it was shoulder pads galore and I felt super cool in my navy blue satin ball gown with matching zigzag eye make-up. The Trader showed up in a tux looking mighty dashing, and the DJ spun an excellent mix of retro tunes. I still have no idea where all the girls got their eighties and nineties dresses. There’s a distinct lack of vintage or charity clothing stores in Dubai so I was really impressed with the amount of planning and effort everyone made. Sash wore a ball gown that, although an interesting shade of vomit pink and layered with ruffles, still enhanced her stunning figure in all the right places (cow!). It really was an awesome party.

  The only person who didn’t come was the Iranian inventor. He got in touch last week as he’s been threatening to have Stacey and me back over for an Iranian feast ever since we moved out, so I thought I’d better do something nice in return and invite him to my party. Perhaps he didn’t understand where it was when it came to the event. Perhaps he just couldn’t have imagined anything worse, but neither of us has heard anything more from the other since then, so maybe that’s all the niceties out of the way now and we can all move on.

  Once we were kicked off the roof, we all poured into a club round the corner at Century Village, a cluster of bars and restaurants within walking distance from our building in a lovely green setting, next to the stadium. Far too many more drinks were consumed and the champers was popped, followed by a screaming match in the street — my first ever extremely vocal disagreement with M&M, as I recall. More on that later.

  Moving swiftly on … and Ewan was carted off to hospital, having been dropped on the floor like a rag doll by his friend during a run-and-jump, Dirty Dancing-type manoeuvre into his friend’s arms. It was a tragic accident he’d like to forget, but one which made the night inevitably more memorable. The line of stitches kind of suits him, too. He’s like a Dynasty war hero, only there was no jealous brother of his uncle’s friend’s pool-boy’s cousin in the mix, unfortunately.

  It was a classy affair indeed, and turning twenty-eight wasn’t altogether awful. Plus, not many of us get to slice the world’s first kebab cake. This very item — due to go in The Guinness Book of Records (category yet to be decided) — was cut by my very own hands last night in a lovely new restaurant called MerCURRIES in the Dubai Financial Centre. I was given the privilege because of it being my birthday week.

  In case you’re wondering, it tasted just like a kebab and the point was, quite simply, to prove that cake, birthday or otherwise, doesn’t have to be sweet or served as a dessert. We also learned such things are great for Arab families too because you don’t even have to be drunk to enjoy this type of kebab.

  Dubai’s outdone itself again. Happy birthday to me!

  27/11

  A weekend in South Africa …

  I had a brush with Africa once before, when I won a safari holiday for two to Kenya. I wanted to take my boyfriend, as I could imagine nothing finer than sleeping under the stars, frolicking through the wilderness and befriending lions with my one true love. However, I didn’t have a boyfriend. So I advertised for one on the Internet.

  After dating my way round London for almost four months, weeding out the weirdos from the potential holiday partners, I decided to take my good friend Dani — only for us both to develop serious diarrhoea as a result of gorging on too much seafood. The illness lasted pretty much the whole trip.

 
Clearly, it wouldn’t have been the most romantic of holidays had I taken a brand-new lover, so on reflection I was glad the boyfriend hunt didn’t go to plan. But naturally, when M&M surprised me with a weekend trip to Cape Town, I was excited to make up for the last shitty (ahem) time I had visiting this magical continent.

  You might be thinking South Africa is quite a long way from Dubai. And you’d be right. It’s a whole eight hours on a plane, direct, and M&M went right ahead and booked us two nights in a luxury apartment and business class plane tickets to make up for missing the majority of my birthday shenanigans. By the time we left, it happened that we had some making up to do, thanks to the drunken explosion outside the club on my birthday. As I’ve mentioned in brief, that little episode saw us screaming on the darkened streets at 3 am — him in a tuxedo, me in an eighties puffy-sleeved blue ball gown. I’m certain it was quite a sight to behold. The catalyst was a combination of my own growing frustration at being number two in our relationship, and his uncontrollable jealousy over a lifestyle I refuse to give up in order to wait around for him. And alcohol.

  Suffice to say we did an adequate amount of making up while we were away and Cape Town, as it happens, is probably one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. It’s the furthest away from Dubai that M&M has ever taken me, and being out of the Emirates we could stroll carefree in a world that allowed lovers like us to embrace, kiss and hold hands in public. In spite of the endless rain and unpredictable temperatures, we definitely made the most of our freedom. In fact, I found myself falling in lust all over again.

  Thank God my experience in South Africa was nothing like the one in the north. He’s taken my nasty memories and made them all lovely and fabulous. Yup . being romanced like this is something I’ll never get over, although it does mean I’m struggling to think of what to get M&M for Christmas. What’s left of my wage every month would hardly cover a book about Cape Town, never mind a trip there. What exactly do you get for the married man who has it all?

  29/11

  A gay old time …

  My friendship with Ewan has reached glorious heights since we met. And not only is a trip to Jaipur firmly in the diary, he’s been introducing me to Dubai’s happening gay scene, which, contrary to popular belief, is thriving. According to Ewan, thanks to a huge population of young professional expats, the scene is one of the most multicultural and diverse around. It’s a whole new world of underground controversy including special catamaran trips, apparently. Anything goes out at sea, when there’s no one around to catch you. Ahoy!

  The CID (Criminal Investigation Division) is constantly doing the rounds, however. Consensual sodomy in Dubai is punishable by up to ten long years in prison. Imagine. Also, punishment can be even more severe if defendants are charged under Islamic law, rather than under the secular penal code.

  Back in 2005, organisers at a popular haunt called The Diamond Club were silly enough not only to host a gay night featuring a transvestite DJ, but to scatter the whole of Dubai with flyers about it. Doh! ‘Fluff Night’ was sabotaged and the club was swiftly closed, but not before being made to issue a formal apology for ‘violating Islamic laws and indulging in immoral activities’ according to local English-language newspaper, the Khaleej Times.

  Ewan tells me that a few years back there was also a raid at the Jules Club in Le Méridien Hotel, which happens to be just around the corner from our apartment block. We walked there the other night to check it out, which was when I loaded up on the gossip. It’s known to be, and definitely was on our visit, brimming with homosexual hotties, all shaking their stuff in sleeveless tees to a relatively average live band. And totally ignoring me. I have to say, I found it quite refreshing not to be leered at by hammered guys in suits — although, obviously, buying my own drinks all night kind of sucked.

  The band performing here on the night of the raid a few years ago were a group of fun-loving guys from the Philippines and a couple of them were arrested. Nothing very detailed was reported in the press, except that the people under arrest were being made to undergo treatment for their ‘illness'.

  I personally noticed the gaping void in TimeOut Dubai when I first got here — a magazine that in other cities is brimming with the latest gay and lesbian attractions, but here barely has its own page for theatre. In a country where the culture condones Indian men strolling around hand in hand, homosexuality is very much illegal and considered an offence punishable by God in the eyes of Islam.

  You only have to stroll through the Mall of the Emirates with your Bluetooth switched on to see the kind of anonymous invites that float about, should you choose to participate in this risky underground game. The single gay man’s best friend, however, is the Internet. In spite of government regulations placing blocks on sites like Gaydar, Manjam and Gayromeo (and my blog), there are always ways to get what you want — and who you want, for that matter.

  Of course, no one dares to make a big deal out of anything happening on the gay scene. Not in public, anyway. But there are two very well-known nightclubs in Dubai that, while not openly advertised as gay clubs, are just that. Everyone knows about them. There are restrictions on touching, cuddling and canoodling, and strict door policies ensure they don’t look at all suspicious on the outside. Once inside, you sure as heck can’t take your shirt off, but apart from that, they’re just like any other gay clubs you might find anywhere else in the world. And the ‘after parties', usually held in villas or apartments following large music nights and famous DJ events, are known to be nothing but sex orgies at times.

  Those in the secret circle are often invited to extravagant affairs after hours, many hosted by prominent locals. Sometimes they’re even held in upmarket hotels and whole floors are rented out for free-for-all sexathons. A friend of a friend who attended one such event tells me, and I quote: ‘Some local guys even arrive in drag, with an entourage of cute young things.’ Others, he says, come from Arab royalty or rich families based in Saudi Arabia.

  Many locals are openly gay (albeit behind the scenes) but to admit it to their families would see them shamed, blamed and ostracised. There are also many who have sex with men, but don’t actually see themselves as gay. Some experiment with same-sex relations in their young adult life because they’re deprived of sex with women before marriage. Many continue to have male sex, even after they’re married.

  Another mutual friend, who’s actually straight, had just moved to Dubai from the UK when he was invited to a male-only party in the desert by his Emirati neighbour. Not really knowing what to expect, he went along to discover carloads of men just hanging out, with tents, lights . everything erected in the middle of the sand dunes. Booze and shisha were both free-flowing and for entertainment — a fleet of dancing boys. He says it was hard to tell at first that they were boys . but they’d been bussed in for the men’s enjoyment and seemed to be having a good time also.

  Ewan swears he’s never done anything seedy, but he has just started seeing a guy called Sean, who caught his eye across a crowded buffet table. Sean still lives at home, but should they ever choose to live together in Dubai and get caught, it could well spell the end of their romance once and for all.

  Being friends with Ewan is very interesting indeed. Not only is he now my partner in crime as far as freebie-blagging and social networking is concerned, but there’s an element of law-breaking when he’s out and about that tangles quite excitingly with our general debauchery. I never ever had that in a friend back home. I feel positively wicked.

  02/12

  Dishonesty pays …

  Stanley shuffled over to my side like a hermit crab and ushered me outside for no apparent reason this morning. He made me wait there in a plume of his vile cigarette smoke, all the while wondering what I’d done wrong. Everyone seems to smoke in this place; the reason perhaps being a combination of boredom and the fact that ciggies are so cheap. Anyway, taking a giant puff he looked at me, and along with exhaling a curl of chemically laden fog he breathed th
e words: ‘I’m giving you a written warning.’ Right in my face like an ominous dragon. How charming.

  I haven’t been given a warning of any sort in any job since my friend called up McDonald’s on my behalf when we were drunk and told them I’d died. I was eighteen and too far gone to make the breakfast shift. But Stanley has discovered my dirty little secret — the fact that I’ve been writing freelance to supplement my rubbish income.

  Of course, placed on the spot, I denied it. I met his cloud of smoke defiantly with a flat-out lie. He couldn’t prove it. I’d asked for a pseudonym. But Stanley said no, it was definitely my full name in the giant pink box above the article. It was also definitely my face grinning cheesily from the photo beside it. Error.

  When they’d asked me for the photo, I half thought that they’d probably needed to check if I was hot enough to write for them — it happens in these parts with some jobs. I sent it off and forgot about it, along with my request for a pseudonym that they’d obviously ignored. No sooner had the lot been uploaded this morning than it caught the beady eye of cyber-scanner Stanley, who thinks my weekly article on Dubai life is in direct competition with the website I’m working on. I suppose it would be, if anyone actually read the website I’m working on. In actual fact, I think the other site is more popular.

  But anyway, you can’t have your kebab cake and eat it too, so in the face of his toxic billows I nodded my head and sloped back to my desk, having officially been warned. The actual letter came later this afternoon. He handed it over in an unmarked envelope, looking sort of sheepish, like a dodgy dealer giving me illegal drugs (if only) and I leaned it up against my monitor. It’s still there. I’m refusing to open it. It gives me the Rage whenever I look at it.