Here’s the thing. I can’t just get up and go. If I could, life would be much easier.
And it’s not just about the family members I need to take care of. Hell, in a weird way, that’s the easiest problem to get around. It’s the simple logistics.
When you’re Pakistani, between the age of 18 and 40 and male, you tend to be subject to a very special kind of regard in matters relating to travel, relocation or employment outside of your home country. Not that it’s significantly easier for too many other nationalities, but simply put, it’s a bitch to get a job in a foreign state. Getting a company to sponsor you for a work-permit involves their having to justify (in the UK for example) hiring you, and said justification has to basically state that nowhere in the entire EC could they find someone with an equivalent skill-set.
I like to think I’m special, but I know I’m not that unique.
So sometimes, although it’s suggested with the best intentions in the world, packing my steamer trunks and heading out to the Wonderful Liberated Rest of the World isn’t an option. Certainly not the US, if only because I don’t think I have enough in the way of spare body-parts and kidnapped offspring to get through the whole bloody visa application process. It’s just not that easy to get up and go. There are hierarchies of acceptability, with me as a piece of paper coming in very low on the totem pole of immi/emigration. And so, while there’s always the tendency to wax eloquent and nostalgic about the good times to be had outside of Pakistan, in countries where 14-hour power outages aren’t treated as standard occurrences and the sight of a policeman doesn’t immediately send you scrambling for your wallet’s “bribe” compartment, well…there’s not a great deal to be done about it. This reality, in turn, feeds into the sense of malaise and general resignation to living and–if only in one’s imagination–loving in Pakistan, because the alternative genuinely is sometimes too difficult to contemplate.
I hope that made some sort of sense, because it was all really bloody cogent in my head as I typed.
Articulating all of this is what led to my friend Coco sitting me down over coffee and biscotti today after work, and led into the explanation as to what was/is/will be stopping me from calling up Curfew Boy to ask him what his take on the two of us is. The short version? I’d rather not rock the boat before I know it’s actually sailing. The slightly longer version? I’m scared that he’s not into this whole thing as much as I am. Coco’s version? I’m a dumbass who not only needs, but also deserves after the effort/time/energy put into this, to ask him whatever the hell I want, especially if all I’m trying to do is sound him out.
Which is all very, very confusing.
I hate being pushy. I hate being needy. But I think about him, and I think about me, and I think about the last decade or so I’ve been alone, and I think about lying in bed with him, giggling as we watch bad TV together, or making him try a bite of sushi, and even though he’s pretty much a straight man in terms of communication/bonding, etc. what with the no phone calls (Coco on his career prospects: “No sales jobs. Ever.”) or text messages, I still like him. I don’t think I’m in love with him, but I think–quite realistically–that the lightning strike of love is rare and infrequent, and as such, I tend to believe in growing into love versus anything more dramatic, no matter how much it may appeal to my sense of drama.
So I’m a little scared that asking questions will precipitate answers that’ll only serve to confirm my innate cynicism about how life is generally out to get fucked, and I’ll spend the next fortnight sobbing into my pillow because, quite frankly, I don’t feel confident enough in myself to sit back and think “OK yeah, you know what? I’m a catch.” Fuck this self-empowerment shit, the last couple of years and the last two decades (give or take) have demonstrated–quite amply–that when push comes to shove, very few gay men give a toss about personality and wit and charm. It’s about six-packs and long flowing locks, and clear skin, and Ken-doll-like waxed chests. I just don’t want to (once again) lose out to that, to re-confront the idea that I am physically unattractive to someone, and to be sad and lonely again. Because I’m not ashamed of that, and I admit it freely: for many years, I have been sad and lonely. Very sad. Very alone. And I didn’t hate it at the time, but that’s because I didn’t let myself feel much during that time.
I’m starting to now. I kind of like it.
Just ask him. Not asking pretty much guarantees the unwanted will happen. Asking at least lets some other options exist, albeit temporarily. It might also be that he’s had nothing to make him clarify his thoughts and asking should precipitate that. Admittedly this brings up the spectre of the dead cat in a box thing, but there’s only one way to know. And I don’t mean it’s in his kiss (so that’s where it is?). So try getting him to count that ways he loves you rather than you counting the ways he could leave you.
As for the upping and leaving, surely there must be other countries? Azerbaijan was in the European Song Contest and that’s nearly as good as being in the EU and they sung in English so must speak it and… ok, I’m not sure how one picks a single place out of all the gin joints in all the world, but find somewhere with a ‘no‘ in the right column and only 12-hour power cuts and then investigate. It’s that or claiming asylum, but for that I think Curfew Boy needs to be stoned and not in the good way.
“that when push comes to shove, very few gay men give a toss about personality and wit and charm. It’s about six-packs and long flowing locks, and clear skin, and Ken-doll-like waxed chests.”
That may be true for some when they’re in their twenties. It doesn’t apply to all gay men. Trust me on this. ((HUGS))
Ug, we’re kind of in the same spot right now.
First of all, let us just establish that I? Have great taste.
Fantastic, exquisite, really really GOOD taste. And I think that you ARE HOT.
Superfine. Gorgeous. Lovely. Shit, baby boy, you’re fiiiiiiiine. And if there is a fucked-in-the-head fag or two out there who doesn’t think you are the very embodiment of some cracked male ideal of perfection, so what. You’re gorgeous.
You’re comparing yourself against a stupid ideal. Srsly. Let it go. Screw those washboard ab boys and their lousy, showy, bad-kissing sex.
It took me a long time to come to terms with not being beautiful, but it can be done. Feeling good is just plain better than feeling ugly, and you will be loved whether you’re a model or not.
*smooch*
P.S. If you ever want to move to the States, I’ll marry you. Totally. You’ll have to live in Walla Walla for awhile, which, is, like, tiny and provincial, but it has TWO HUNDRED LOCAL WINERIES so it won’t, like, hurt at all, and the only ass you’re be able to hit is probably in college (there’s Whitman College and a community college and an active GLBT club), but there are way worse things than college ass.
I hear you about not being able to just pack up and move away. The visa application process alone is enough to remind you that you are, for all intents and purposes, guilty of whatever it is your particular racial group is supposed to be guilty of, until you are proven innocent, and don’t you ever forget that, darky. It kinda makes you question if it’s worth it when you have to go for test after test and interview after interview. …meh
As for Curfew Boy, I think Anyhoo is right. Just ask. It’s going out on a limb, but it’s worth it, I think. My girlfriend did just that a little while ago and while I could tell she was scared (and I was a teensy bit freaked out too) we concluded that we loved being together and ultimately that we were in it for the long haul. We’ll see what happens when it happens, of course (see? I do disclaimers too.), but there’s something about knowing where the other person stands that just makes it easier to breathe sometimes.
Here’s my rough and rugged advice: just say that you like him, and you’re wondering where you stand with him.
If he is flip flopping, fuck him.
“Because I’m not ashamed of that, and I admit it freely: for many years, I have been sad and lonely. Very sad. ”
Am I the only one who gets all affected by reading stuff like this? Stop it, jaan. Stop it, wipe your tears away, and move to Kathmandu with me.
Oh shit, I cannot believe that this thought didn’t occur to me earlier. Jaan, you HAVE to come to Kathmandu. The gay ladkhas here are FINE. And, you coming into Nepal as a Pakistani is bilkul NO PROBLEM, in contrast to going to India (visa, logistics, political significance, you possibly being locked up on suspicions for being a terrorist or member of LET, etc).
Now, if you have my taste, you’ll like the soldiers and armed policemen, some of whom are simply to swoon for. I’m talking lovely brown men who are tall, broad-shouldered, handsome faces, all of the works. But I think that few of them are gay (if their checking out all the ladies passing by is anything to go by), but you NEVER KNOW. You might meet a hot soldier or armed policeman who likes you too, and you guys can spend endless nights lathi-charging one another!