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I smile at the maitre ‘d and indicate my company. I ask for a glass of sauvignon blanc, some water with lemon, and make my way to him, to Christian, and I can feel every muscle in my stomach contract. Ten years of friendship and still my desire for him, to feel him, to taste him, has not abated. Thank God he’s getting married. Thank God there is no longer a possibility. He stands as I approach the table and wraps his arms around me. Even now, I can feel the strength in his embrace, can feel the muscles in his back, his arms, can smell his sweet manly scent. He never wears cologne, it’s just him, just his body, his heat that gives off this scent and it drives me wild. We talk and order, and talk some more, laughing and joking as we always do. We catch up on the past few months, talk about the big day, and I watch with keen interest as he seems to become less animated as he starts talking about his future wife, and his very soon-to-be future life. The food arrives and the silence that. His beard had grown as well as his belly. A white turban crowned his head, and he had purchased new glasses. He finished university in Cairo in accordance with his father’s instructions. Even though he completed the many years of arduous study and training, he never believed school or education in general helped anyone. He remembered his training as a fierce burden. He believed that academia, especially the type which concentrates only on Allah, His Prophet, and the Prophet’s writings was downright boring and insulting. He compared such training to water dripping from a faucet or hearing a clock making its slow revolutions around and around a faded dial. But he had acquiesced to his father’s commands. Otherwise he would have been banned from the kingdom and whipped by some proud mutawaf.He stayed among the clerics and students of Al-Azhar for ten years. He withdrew himself from judging students and attending regular classes. He reluctantly studied with a select group of clerics.
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