This post is a shemale

Posted on September 22, 2007

14


As you can tell, female friendship has been on my mind lately. I suppose this was partly caused by that trip to Sharm, wherein I wallowed, lolled and frolicked in a pool of testosterone. I emerged from it gasping and mewling “I need boobs!” weakly. I did it in my head, though. Also, for the first time in a long time, I have absolutely no men in my life (well, any that I’m interested in) which has left me with more time to appreciate women, I guess. But mostly it was the Sharm thing.

Reflecting on these matters, I was reminded of the last time I attended any sort of all-women gathering (if you don’t count the mano a mano shisha sessions with Spaz in which we huddle like old men over our respective teas and grunt rather obvious statements at each other from time to time. Actually, today we discussed feminism and writing and hot football players and adult stuff like that). That gathering was Spaz’s bachelorette party, which saw us schlepping over the longest possible time and through the worst possible neighbourhoods in the searing June sun (albeit in chauffeured car) to Zamalek, where a friend had gone to all sorts of insane lengths to make it a special day. She laid on a fantastic breakfast with bagels, cheeses and spreads of every kind, no mean feat in Cairo. We then set off, along with sundry other females, to the Mena House Oberoi, where we did our best to do “girl talk”, lubricated by overpriced beer. Everyone brought out alarming anecdotes about their respective partners and old flames, some of which resulted in unpleasant visuals as these confessions are apt to do. That part was fun for me, as no one loves alarming an audience as much as I do. Then we moved on to discussing our various dresses for the wedding, which filled me with discomfort. Seriously, I hate discussing or describing prospective outfits…it makes my stomach knot up. The farthest I will go in a discussion about fashion is to virulently criticize someone else’s outfit (which I very much enjoyed doing at the wedding). The gathering was nice, ultimately, and even though I didn’t know a lot of the women there too well, I felt a commonality. Note that I did NOT feel sisterhood. God forbid I use that word.

From there we repaired to the apartment of Tourism Girl, bitching sporadically about the bride’s refusal to permit us to hire a stripper – at the time, we had within reach a guy who would actually be willing to strip, and I would have supported such an enterprise readily if only for the sake of bloggability. However, when we got to TG’s place we were nevertheless greeted by a gloriously beautiful young man wearing only shorts. This turned out to be her brother. My mouth possibly dropped open, because after all Egypt presents very few opportunities for leering at half-naked golden men with six packs. M has some, but he’s not golden. He’s also quite hairy, which while appreciated, gets in the way of accurate leering.

Anyway, said gentleman not only remained nude, he also plied us with delicacies (apparently he took a chef course) of an incredibly creative and delicious nature. We also played this:

Yes, pin the penis on the pharaoh (our host wanted to keep it real, and apparently, large). As you can see, our skills bode ill for future spouses. But for my purposes the highlight, on both a culinary and authorial level, was the following:

A carrot cake in the shape of a penis. All cut up. The cinnamon pubic hairs were my idea, needless to say. Shit was DELICIOUS, and enabled us all to gleefully exclaim things like, “I’d like part of the shaft please,” and “Maybe another piece of scrotum.” The pictures of the diced cake also amused us, as it caused all our male friends to instinctively shelter their nuts. But then again, everything seems amusing when you are blasted on home-mixed melon mojitos (our friend was truly determined to flout all of Egypt’s gastronomic shortcomings, and that is one of the reasons we miss her very much. You see why it’s hard to find good new female friends).

Meanwhile, the bachelors amassed said pool of testosterone and…went out for sushi. Can we say LAME? There had been some talk of kidnappings, noxious substances, belly dancers etc, but the groom is not one to appreciate surprises; he is one to appreciate raw fish, however. So I guess they wanted to be assured of his enjoyment.

On a very loosely related note, a couple of weeks ago I was at a bar celebrating someone’s birthday – one of the partying Copts. All of the attendees were Copts as well, except for one Muslim guy (named Islam, though, so he might have been worth 2 or more) and one Hindu. I looked around and noted that most of them were affianced and wed, and remarked glumly to this effect to the fellow on my right, who was veritably sparkling with new romance. He looked around with me and proposed several candidates. He pointed at a guy across the table, an admittedly eligible one, with hair and everything. However, I knew we had nothing in common, and said so. “He’s got a big dick,” my neighbour said.

“How do you know?” I said, somewhat aghast.

“I just know.”

Emboldened by three vodka pineapples, I asked Mr. Big as to how his penile measurements came to be bandied publicly about, and by men. He thought for a while and told me that he had thrown a bachelor party at which he had secured, by dubious means, the services of a stripper, and that at some point in the evening they were all naked. This, he said, is probably where the first guy saw his penis. This was all delivered with staggering nonchalance, which I blamed on his French education. Every time I am weirded out by a guy, and he went to a French school, I blame it on that. They DO come out strange!

I see I’ve moved very, very far from my initial topic. To penises. You see why I need more girl time. Luckily I’ve met loads of cool girls lately, and will seduce them stealthily.

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Posted in: food, friends, fun bits, gender