Ok, I’ve been getting a lot of heat from people lately, and deservedly so. I have a good five months yet to write on the trip I completed over a year ago. Those of you who know me well know that I’ve been busy with stand up lately, but that’s really no excuse to let the prose slip by. So… here’s my olive branch. Dubai. I apologize for its length, as it should really be three separate stories. But if you stick with it, I think the third act will pay some pleasant dividends. Enjoy:
My exit strategy from the bowels of Earth known as Cairo was to grab the cheapest flight to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania to begin my African chapter. Fortunately, this took me through Dubai, a city whose modernity was starkly evident during my flight's descent. Given the buzz surrounding Dubai, and my anxious anticipation to see it, I can't resist the urge to compare it to Las Vegas.
Though it's quite different indeed. The recipe for Dubai is as follows:
Take one whole Las Vegas. Remove strippers, gambling, fake boobs, overt hedonism. Take the soulless glitz that remains, and spread it out over 400 square miles. Stir in two cups of high-end shopping. Sprinkle in headscarves. Add two heaping quarts of self-entitled ex-pats. Stir vigorously until a culturally substantive void is evident. Bake at 900 degrees Celsius. Sweat perpetually. Consume with copious amounts of alcohol (to taste). When sober, desperately avoid suicide while awaiting departing flight.Arriving in Dubai, my first impression was of the airport, which is by all accounts a step above all other airports I’ve ever been in. This includes notables such as Schiphol, Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, and Narita. The shopping is very Fifth Avenue, with the people even more irritating than your average Fifth Avenue Louis handbag street strutter. In other words, pretty douchey. Apparently it is possible to be a douche and wear a headscarf, which I have to admit, took me by surprise. Immediately I was struck with the realization that the Middle East, although I was still in it, had become a much different place. Like comparing New York and Lincoln, Nebraska I suppose. Aleppo, Syria this was not. Thank fucking Allah. That place was a glory hole in the Shroud of Turin as far as I was concerned.
I wonder…. If the Shroud depicts the image of a crucified man (believed by many to be Jesus, though there’s clearly no real way of knowing), where would the glory hole be? Remember, there are more logical hole positions in Jesus than in the average human.
Enough. Even I’m disturbed that that imagery.
My first night in town I went to a nearby hotel bar known for it's weekday party scene, where I met a couple of Pakistani guys, Farhan and Nike. Nike is a stylish hairdresser type, and lord knows Pakistanis have plenty of hair. He should have been rich. He wasn't. Though he was quiet, polite, and under control. On the other hand, Farhan is a near complete disaster. The depth of his mania would prove to be staggering on a level I'd only before seen outside my neighborhood methadone clinic. Or maybe it was inside. I was so fucked up on heroin, it was hard to tell.
Farhan tells me he’s the son of a Pakistani prince, and that he ran away from Islamabad when his girlfriend broke up with him. It is at this point, after about 30 minutes of exchanged pleasantries, that he shows me the accordion of scars up and down his arms depicting his many failed attempts to gain the favor of 77 virgins. Not being one to judge, I laugh it off with a remark about how everyone knows that cutting your arms vertically is the only real way to impress a virgin. He seemed to like that.
Next he bought me a shot of Patron, while launching into a lengthy diatribe about how he plays drums in a band back home, and how he'll have to take me to see some of the good bands in town. Being an avid live music fan, I accept the shot, accept the invitation, and likewise, accept the sneaking suspicion that I may have quickly become Farhan's best friend in all of Dubai. Apparently my intense friendship with Braun in Sharm el Sheikh was not lesson enough. I was suddenly in a committed relationship. More importantly, Farhan and Nike each confess to me their undying affection for white women, and I soon realize my role has become that of a conduit between these two and the western women they covet. Farhan is buying my drinks, and with a willing benefactor, I’m all for getting these guys some fair-skinned floozies.
Unfortunately, Farhan is completely useless in this arena. His mode of operation, however formulaic and perpetually unsuccessful, is the following:
-Buy as many of the most expensive drinks available as it takes for a girl's eyes to glaze over and her mouth to fall open
-Pontificate ad nauseam about his drum playing skills while emphatically air-drumming to punctuate his awesomeness
-Show off his arm scars depicting failed attempts at attention-- I mean suicide.
-Gyrate awkwardly with his massive purple lips bouncing in unison with the baseline
As such, the first night ends rather uneventfully; with some unnerving conversations with ex-pats and about 14 rounds of shots, many with Red Bull as a key component. Because what says “forcing a good time” like Red Bull and a massive bar tab?
The next night was my most pivotal night in Dubai. This was one of life’s examples of how a seemingly insignificant action can result in a complete course redirection. While at Budda Bar with Farhan, a tall, striking white woman seemed transfixed on my sexy splendor. Or maybe it was my bleary eyed gaze back towards her and her concern that I was somehow plotting her imminent demise. Frankly, it was probably more the latter.
After about 20 minutes and another four shots of Patron, the situation was clearly turning uncomfortable. For me. Farhan was telling me for the ninety millionth time about how he misses "his girl" back in Pakistan. Given his blubbering, I no longer needed to imagine what would make a woman, even one of meager Pakistani means, to leave a man of royalty. He was a royal pussy. Real nice guy, though.
I answer the beckon from the staring woman, who turns out to be from Canada, and who just so happens to be there with her boyfriend. Although, this did not preclude her from flirting relentlessly with both Farhan and I. Frankly, part of me was wondering whether or not this chick was actually a high-priced call girl (of which there are many in Dubai). But to my surprise, she invited Farhan and I out to their condo on the Palm Jumeirah the next night. I'd already heard what a pain in the ass it was to get out on the Palm, so an invitation of this kind was Dubai's equivalent to getting invited into the Playboy Mansion, if the Playboy Mansion didn't come with a dying old man and more STDs than a biopsy of Courtney Love's cervix.
The next day, we are on our way to the Palm, after being passed at three separate security checkpoints. This, I've surmised, is meant more to keep out the toiling laborers who have built Dubai under the guise of day labor, but in reality is more a form of modern day slavery. It's akin to Reno "entertainment professionals" mining and refining the very silicon used in the fake titties hanging off each "entertainment professional" working in the Spearmint Rhino, but when the sun goes down, the Reno "entertainment professionals" are banned from the Spearmint Rhino because they're obviously not worthy. Which I guess is fair. No one likes a whore with black lung. And no, that's not racist. It's sexist.
On the way to the Palm, the city's overexpansion became even more clear. Every single building was capped with a crane, and in a glance you'd see up to 10-15 skyscrapers actively under construction. So much so that across the world, there was a shortage of cranes, because one-third of all the world's cranes were in Dubai. Keep in mind, this is a city in which its sudden boom is directly correlated not only with the discovery of oil, but with it's value spike up until a year ago. Dubai was (over)developed under the assumption that oil futures would average $100/barrel, and ever since that level has proven to be grossly inflated, everyone knows that Dubai has since turned into a bit of a ghost town, or the Williamsburg, Brooklyn waterfront. Take your pick. Either way, Dubai has the feel of a city that's no more than five years old, and one that certainly hasn't matured past its age. It carries a strong whiff of plagiarized Westernism, from the post-modernist architecture to the stuffy air of entitled self-importance. It also boasts western university outposts (RIT, American Univ, Boston Dental, Cass Business School, Manchester Univ), many western restauranteurs have opened outposts there, and even more westerners live there as employees of the financial and service sector, inasmuch as 75% of UAE are not native to the Emirates. It's like Chinatown for white people, without the fish stink.
Once out on the Palm, Farhan and I are led into a gorgeous three story condominium, replete with art-deco furnishings and Indian art that looked far too expensive to be carrying the weight of overturned wine bottles and overstuffed ashtrays. It reminded me of walking into my rich friend's parents' house the morning after a high school kegger. Only better because I was in Dubai and not Kinnelon, NJ. And better still because I've had sex before, and in Kinnelon I couldn't lay claim to claiming a lay at all.
Each frond of the
Palm Jumeirah is a manmade beach peninsula, so that every condo on the Palm enjoys beach front property, even if your neighbor is only a 50 meter swim to the next frond. Which makes for a pretty slow getaway for a ding-dong-dash. This is the project completed before the infamous
World project (a collection of islands meant to resemble the Earth) got underway. The Emirates, sparing no expense, moved immense amounts of sand to create the Palm and the World. Sadly, I was unable to find any of the peyote the emirates themselves were clearly reliant upon to visualize such insanity.
Because of the world's recent emigration to Dubai, the most common question asked by the ex-pats is "how long have you been here?" To which my answer of "this is my third day" was often met with astonishment. People apparently had been trying to get out and see the Palm for over 6 months (since it's completion at that time), and my supremacy in the field of networking has never before or since been so unquestioned.
Once arrived, the party was rife with people of varying professional services backgrounds, be it advertising, financial, or escort services. To be sure, some women at the party were no doubt experts in the field of arm candy. And everyone at the party were experts in the field of hard partying. My kind of crowd.
Julie, the host who'd invited us, seemed to take a keen interest in Farhan and me. Which, in light of Farhan's penchant for ladies of the Caucasian influence, made his big purple lips pucker eagerly to slobber pretty much anywhere on her body, whether she wanted them there or not. Interestingly, this air of desperation only seemed to endear Farhan to Julie even moreso, and Farhan took the early lead in the Julie sweepstakes, albeit a distant second place to her rich, live-in boyfriend Nisham. Farhan likes 'em white, Julie likes 'em brown... I get it.
The party lasted well into the early morning hours, with wine and weed acting as the predominant currency. Being a poor leader and a fabulous follower, I spent a great deal of time drinking and smoking out in the backyard on the beach with Paul, Julie's neighbor from Essex who'd moved next door two months earlier. He had recently gotten engaged, and was somewhat reticently anticipating his fiancee's arrival to live with him the following week. The reason for his petulance was simple: he was having too much fun without her. This would be even further evidenced in the days to come. The word "come" here is intentionally being used duplicitously.
Also at the party was a tall, stunning personal assistant from Montreal named Nicole. Seeing Julie transfixed on Farhan's purple people eaters, I spent a good deal of time at the party drinking champagne and smoking joints with Nicole. She was reciprocating in kind, and Farhan and I could be seen exchanging glances across the crowded living room as if to say "that's my nigga."
Julie's boyfriend was floating around the party flirting heavily with anyone who would give him enough time to fill their wine glass. Something about this couple felt a bit askew, while at the same time refreshingly progressive. At the time, it was no wonder they loved each other so much, insofar as their relationship was clearly devoid of any hint of jealousy's parasitism. And who wouldn't love someone who was so willing to watch you get a wet pinky with the girl who served you lychee martinis at brunch?
The next day, I escaped to the Mall of Emirates to glance underwhelmingly at the world's largest indoor ski slope. More than just another example of man's inability to impress in comparison with nature, the indoor ski slope just strikes anyone who's ever seen an actual mountain as being utter masturbation. For a Bedouin however, it's probably more akin to an average passportless Midwesterner taking awestruck pictures in front of the "Eiffel Tower" at Paris Paris in Las Vegas. In other words; suck it. Get out and see some real shit.
Later, in the record store, I am besieged with a thousand advertisements for DJ Tiesto's Valentine's Day concert at the Madinat Arena. Without hesitating, I text Farhan my plans to stay an additional twelve days, then dial Emirates Air to change my flight from a February 4th departure the next day to a February 16th departure (leaving myself an extra day to recover from what is sure to be an epic party). With Farhan's help through a friend of his in the booking department, I change my flight free of charge. Now my only problem is finding another suitable hotel for under $200/night. In Dubai, that's like finding a finding a Manhattan apartment for $600/month whose walls aren't covered in DNA.
My hotel at the time was a spacious apartment-style flat with a balcony and plenty of room for Farhan to crash as he had been the past two nights, as his apartment was in a part of town much further from what is considered desirable. My next two hotels however, would prove to be progressive examples of how ones accomodations can degenerate to crack-den status without proper planning.
The first was in the same area of town that Farhan lives in, generally nothing more than a financial center with nothing worth doing nearby, and that includes girlie bars. I'll explain the girlie bars shortly. My hotel room was fine, and Farhan was excited because apparently the house band at my new hotel was amazing. Falling victim to my "always say yes" mantra, I agreed to check this band out. They had some awful name like "Monkeythrust" or "Blue Whale Cocks" or something, and they were nothing more than your average college-quality cover band. To be honest, I've seen better bands at Karaoke parlors in Thailand. Farhan however, was so enamored with the drummer, that he bought her some expensive set of drumsticks, and I made a crack about how he's "moving too fast". I don't think people in other parts of the world understand that a proper courtship should involve a period of letting the other person know definitively that you don't give a fuck about them.
From this hotel, I moved even further down the scale into probably the closest thing to a ghetto any white person in Dubai can find: the Claridge, which was a small step above a homeless shelter, in an area of town most likely to have a homeless shelter. It still ran me $140/night. There are no cabs to speak of anywhere nearby, and more often than not, I had to walk 30 minutes to a highway and wait another 15 before an available cab drove by. Is that what it's like in the Bronx? See? Even in Dubai, I was considering ways to identify with Black America. Though in doing so, I wanted to kill myself. All I wanted was a goddamn taxi queue near my hotel. Would have settled for some fried chicken though.
Let me get back to the girlie bars. Our first few nights out, Farhan had insisted on paying for everything. Being a prince, he claimed to have piles of money. Later in the week, I learned differently. Not only was he drawing off scant resources, he was doing so to impress me (of all people). In doing so, he'd take us to these "girlie" bars, which when suggested in such context, certainly sounds like a time worth having. Once inside however, you learn quickly how the influence of Islam can affect a good time. These bars consist of nothing more than a fully dressed (typically Filipino) girl dancing on a stage as any normal girl would. Mind you, not as any normal stripper would, but any girl would. On our third visit (along with Nike) to one of these "girlie" bars, for two hours, the following cycle repeated itself roughly 6 times:
One round of bulldogs (a rum/vodka/red bull drink that only served to heighten Farhan's mania)
Call forward one of the girlies
Tip her with anywhere from 6-10 necklaces (which account for a minimum tip apiece)
Farhan waxes wistful about his girl back in Pakistan
I tell Farhan to look at the stage, and not in his heart
Another round of bulldogs
Finally the bill arrives, while Farhan is in the bathroom. Since he'd been so generous to this point, I elect to pick up the bill. Only after running my credit card do I look at the tally, pre-tip: $1,150US. WHAT THE FUCK!? I hadn't even seen a boob yet. I later told Farhan that "girlie" bars were no longer an acceptable pregame activity, barring a dramatic reduction in either cost or clothing.
Dubai is rife with prostitutes. If you're touring the town using only a guidebook, you're likely to seek out a place that Lonely Planet would describe as a place with a "fun, easy-going vibe, with moderately priced cocktails your wallet will enjoy." If Lonely Planet knew a damn thing, what they'd instead say is "fun, easy women, at moderate prices your cock will enjoy." This is why the more I traveled, the more I realized I didn't need (or want) a guidebook for anything. The people who write those things are retarded. Though if they're hiring... hook me up! I need a job, and I'm only mildly retarded.
With the days counting down to Tiesto, Farhan and I went on a desert safari, which consisted of driving like maniacs on the dunes in Toyota Land Cruisers, followed by an uber-touristy belly dance. We also rented jet skis and risked our lives playing chicken on the Persian Gulf, which was decidedly more fun. By now, I've become keenly aware of my need to endanger myself in order to be thoroughly entertained. It's a minor miracle I've never broken a bone [knocks on wood], although it's a major miracle I've never killed myself.
My days leading up to Tiesto were spent most commonly wandering through any one of the nearby malls (they are literally everywhere in Dubai, as shopping is a full time job there) to either watch a movie, or just gaze into the windows with the most shiny things. Swarovski is especially good for that. During one such day, I was again in the Mall of Emirates, when Julie calls me and asks why I wasn't at Brunch. Apparently I had a voicemail with an invite. And apparently now many of the people I'd met at their party were completely hammered at 5:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday. She invites me to their house for the "after party" and to be there by 7:00. I spring into action.
At the time of this conversation, I was wandering around in an old t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. Clearly, I was going to need an overhaul (if not a shower). Additionally, my crappy hotel was at least a $40 cab ride away, and with the Palm being in the opposite direction, I was facing at least $100 in taxis to get home, change clothes, and head to Julie's. Instead, I make the much simpler decision to to buy all new clothes. New shoes, jeans, and shirt to the tune of $160 (you can get some good gear in Dubai at affordable prices; there are no import tariffs). Then I went into the bathroom, changed, took a faux-shower with liquid hand soap and paper towels provided by the bathroom attendant, and tossed my old clothes in a bag and left them on the sink for anyone who wanted shorts and sneakers that had been to the Valley of the Kings. Ramses III must have rubbed off on them somehow. Wait, was that another fertility joke? ZING!
Looking the part of a guy who looks like he should have retail tags hanging from his sleeve, I arrive at the condo to find about nine people all completely shitfaced. Farhan is already there. I have some catching up to do.
I retreat to the back patio to smoke a joint and swill some wine, and Farhan joins me. Moments later, he is sobbing to me about his girl back home again, and as is customary when my brain is seeking an escape from a conversation that can involve anything, preferably lethal substances, my eyes rolled and a deliberate wandering gaze commenced.
However, on this occasion, I was treated to the most delightful segue in the history of the ending of bad conversations. A glance inside to the living room delivered the sight of Julie sitting between her boyfriend Nisham and her neighbor Paul, spread-eagled, hands on multiple cocks, with multiple hands and mouths aggressively exploring her erogenous zones. It took me a minute to process; meanwhile Farhan could not stop crying. I'm unsure how many people since Marie Antoinette have been gifted with such a sight, but my emotions evolved from shock, to delight, to fear, to glee, back to fear, and finally confused arousal. Then I told Farhan to shut the fuck up.
I felt like
Scooby Doo (watch his expressions). They are all relatable here.
Farhan refused to stop sobbing about his woman until I literally slapped his face and spun him around to look at the sexual splendor taking place in the next room. Jaws flagging wide open, we started dancing and laughing like two kids who'd just come out of a peep show. Though, we pretty much are kids, and we were pretty much watching a peep show. So yea; so much for that analogy.
At some point, I knew I needed more booze. The three oversexed animals on the couch didn't seem like they'd care if I made a move to the wine fridge, and so on my way through the living room, I toasted them, they all smiled, and continued doing what they were doing. God bless them.
Minutes later, Paul was in the kitchen with me, smiling ear to ear, as he hurriedly gathered three dirty wine glasses and a bottle of red. Our conversation went as follows:
me: Dude, mazel tov!
Paul: Mate, today is crazy.
me: I feel like I missed a full-blown orgy by about three hours.
Paul: Well, you certainly missed on getting blown.
me: What the fuck are you doing down here talking to me, get upstairs and get me a story to tell.
Paul: Mate, I just had it off with Nicole a couple hours ago. I thought that was a story.
me: I'm not leaving Dubai. Or this condo.
Paul: See you in an hour.
me: Hey, if you need a hand in there, knock twice on the wall.
Paul: See you in thirty.
me: [to self] Nice guy.
I learned something that day. I learned that I know my place when an orgy is going down. And that is to ensure all involved parties don't have it fucked up by some lovesick Paki. I took the bullet for the next hour or so while Farhan manically oscillated between musings of how his girl would never do the kinds of nefarious things Julie was now doing, although when pressed, I convinced him that part of him really wished she would.
The rest of the night consisted of a high-speed drunken car race to the club in the back of Nisham's convertible M5, and a VIP table scene with many bottles of Dom on hand, courtesy of Nisham. Nothing says "I'm celebrating a threesome" like Dom. I drank scotch. I was celebrating my first ride in an M5. Not the same.
According to Julie, she'd never done anything like that before. For my money though, she sure seemed to know her way around multiple inputs at a level a bit above that of a novice. Paul confided in me that Nisham wouldn't let him have sex with Julie, but was more than fine with letting him take the head while Nisham took the tail. I told Paul that isofar as he hadn't bathed between acts of coitus, it was probably a fair limitation. Then Paul started drinking scotch with me to celebrate my ride in the M5. Nice guy.
Our conversation inevitably turned to the eventual arrival of Paul's fiancee. He smiled and laughed that had he known days like the one he'd just had could take place in Dubai, he would have been none too swift to drop a noose on anyone's ringfinger. When I reminded him that none of these sordid events had taken place before I showed up, he confided to me that he truly thought I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. I think part of me fell for Paul as well.
Dubai, however, was a similarly extraneous variable. It really doesn't bring a lot to the table in terms of what makes a city great. Without these people out on the Palm and to a lesser extent Farhan, it's safe to say that my time in Dubai would have been best served to remain at three days. Frankly, as I mentioned before, even the indoor ski slope that everyone talks about is wholly unimpressive. Oh, you have a three story hill of snow indoors? That's awesome? Wrong. It's not. You suck.
Frankly, the only thing Dubai has is a canal walk that can very much be missed, some pretty incredible shopping, and an entitled air carried by the ex-pats who arrived in Dubai to make their money and live lavishly. The restaurants boast some impressive names, though I would challenge anyone who is of the belief that Gordon Ramsay is really taking an active role in his outpost in Dubai. I think Jenna Jameson cares more about where her videos are being pirated (my apartment) than Gordon Ramsay does about what a bedouin thinks of his roasted Barbary duck breast. Mmmm... breasts.
After several weeks of waking up at 3pm, window-shopping for things I couldn't afford, and watching movies, it was finally time for the Tiesto concert at Madinat Arena. Julie and Nisham were throwing a party (again) that night, and though I desperately did NOT want Farhan to join me at Tiesto, he somehow managed to put himself on the event staff, and wound up working the concert. Luckily, he was typically too busy showing off his security badge to the other 8,000 partyers to bother too much with me.
Several people from Julie's party were going, and I was going with Nicole. Nicole is one of those women who is so stunning that she looks at a line of 25 people waiting to buy drink tickets and says "I'll be back in a minute," and within two minutes has a fistful of drink tickets. I didn't even know you could blow a guy that fast. She was like a magician, only better because instead of hidden magnets, she has boobs.
Madinat did everything they could to ruin this show. First, there was a narrow shoot to funnel through for ticket-takers. Farhan helped us there. Second, was the long line to show ID to get a wristband for drinks. Then there was a mile-long line to buy drink tickets, which Nicole breezed through. Finally, there was an angry sea of expectant drinkers teeming with brutal sobriety waiting to buy drinks from the six bartenders staffed to serve 8,000 fans of fucking trance music?! This was already a shitstorm, and although I was considerably more drunk than most everyone else there, and blessed with a blow-off-any-semblance-of-a-queue card in Nicole, I was still irritated.
Nicole was obsessed with making sure she connected with everyone she knew who was at the venue. We spent the first 30 minutes of Tiesto's set running around trying to find some guy who it turns out Nicole used to date, but upon meeting him, was an obvious douche. I have learned something over the years though... Most girls have a soft spot for douches. Only the coolest and most desirable of all girls will turn their nose up at any and all douches. Of course, if you're someone who can't be with a girl who has ever been with a douche (like I am), this pares down the population of desirables to a scant number of hippies, hipsters, and victims of date rape.
Later on, Nicole had to go to the bathroom again, for the 30th time to pump whatever stimulant she was on up into her face. Either that, or she ate some bad shrimp. Hard to say really, as I was on the verge of utter obliteration by this time. On this occasion, Tiesto was whipping the whole place into a frenzied orgy of jumping fits and screams. I have a very real weakness for a frenzied live music orgy. As the throbbing and whooting increased, I slowly gravitated back to the dance floor, thinking Nicole and I would reconnect in the middle of the thumping bass bukkake that had become Madinat Arena.
That never happened. My texts to her went unreturned for the rest of the night. Which, to be honest, was somewhat of a relief. I was able to enjoy the rest of the show in my own unencumbered, booze-fueled bliss while Tiesto tore the motherfucking house down.
The following day was my last full day in Dubai. I spent it hanging out with Farhan and some of his dopey friends. In a cyclical twist, we were all back at Budda Bar, the same bar in which Farhan and I met Julie and Nisham. After the threesome, those two opted to take a break from partying for awhile, and they sent me their regards. Truth is, I think they were both a little ashamed of it all. Fun while it lasted, but I think they were back to figuring out why the hell they were together in the first place, if all either of them wanted to do was take other people's clothes off. Say what you will about open relationships, but it is my contention that if there isn't any hint of jealousy on both sides of a relationship, it's probably more one of convenience than one of undying devotion. Or so says the guy whose only serious girlfriend boned her ex-boyfriend two months into their near two-year relationship. So, what do I know?
At Budda Bar, a couple ladies from California and I began talking, which evidently was Farhan and his friends' cue to descend on the scene and all but mouth-rape the very girls I was trying to mouth-lovemake to. This method of predatory cock-blocking seems it would be the most successful in a tent in Karachi, where the girls inside know their choices are either mouth loving one of the men in the tent, or a stoning against the wall outside the tent. Either way, you need a tent.
Predictably, the girls flaked off, and I had reached my breaking point with Farhan. It was our last night together, and I just couldn't take another episode of him showing off his scarred-up arms and stories about what an amazing drummer he's not. I said my good-bye and mercifully got into a cab on the way home. With a 30 minute ride to my hotel ahead of me, my mind wandered back to Nicole. I was a bit irritated that she blew me off, and that I'd let her get away with it so easily. Was I happier to have seen Tiesto on my own? Definitely. Though was I happy at all that she had gotten the last word? Not so much. I chose this time as my opportunity to even the score.
The following are our texts back and forth on my last night in Dubai, at approximately 2:30 in the morning:
me: Let's bone. Where you at?
Nicole: Fuck you.
me: I love your spirit. Does this mean you're at home? I can be there in 20.
Nicole: Seriously, fuck off.
me: For someone who ditched me last night, you sure seem to be misdirecting your anger. It is my contention this will make you a better lay. What say you?
Nicole: I looked around for you for half an hour and went home. Was too drunk. I thought you ditched me.
me: I texted you like 5 times. Let's take our clothes off and bury the hatchet.
me: And by hatchet I mean my cock.
Nicole. When do you leave?
me: Tomorrow
Nicole: Safe flight
me: There's still time for you to have my baby.
Nicole: Look me up if you're back in Dubai ever
me: I will. Next time we hang out I plan to fuck you and never call you again.
Nicole: Asshole
me: I was planning to use your vagina.
Nicole: Gross
me: It doesn't have to be.
Nicole: See you when I see you
me: Tell Paul I'll miss him.
Nicole: Haha. He likes you too. I will.
me: Him I'll miss. You, not so much. Till next time...
Nicole: He'll miss you too. I'll look you up on Facebook.
me: I will reject you. Going to bed now.
Nicole: G'night. Safe flight.
me: Good chat.
Of course, with my luck, my phone with all my Dubai contacts was stolen in Dar es Salaam and I've lost touch with everyone I'd met and spent time with there. This is particularly tragic because Paul is apparently in NY all the time, and he's the one person in particular that I really wished to stay in touch with. Either way though, my opinion of Dubai is that if you ever plan on going there, and you don't know Julie, Nisham, or Paul, you're better off not going at all. It's a fun city, but not one in which you can't have the same amount, if not more fun elsewhere, in a city that feels genuine and real. Dubai had an overwhelming falseness to it. I don't plan to ever go back. Besides, it just can't be better the next time than it was the first time. It's better to preserve that memory. And by "that memory" I mean the memory of Julie with her hands full of cock.
Next story will be of Tanzania. I am committed to completing the stories from my trip. For those of you that care, stay tuned.
