An old friend.

He calls every now and then. Not on a daily basis like he used to but he calls. Whenever he finds out something interesting about an old common friend or receives another pathetic CIE result sheet, my number is the first he dials. I haven’t seen him in two years but I doubt he looks any different. He certainly doesn't sound any different and the topics that interest him haven’t changed in the slightest. I remember him being my best friend growing up. I recall discussing whether or not it was haram to lick a woman’s breasts, passing judgement on the couple who would make out in the school’s back shed and calling the teacher with a big bottom a whore. I remember ridiculing this boy who was slightly taller and thinner than us and giving him the nickname ‘Ostrich.’

I understood that I was being offensive but it seemed a small price to pay in order to be a member of his clique. I always feared not having friends. I worried that if I didn't have any friends, people would feel free to point out my idiosyncrasies and I would become the ridiculed ‘Ostrich.’ I feared everyone noticing exactly how terrible a cricket player I was, the way my arm gestures resembled those of a woman and more than anything, I feared people being able to somehow figure out that I was sexually attracted to men and not women. So I clung onto this clique of boys that I secretly hated because as long as I was one of them, I was safe.

Although I had the support of these supposed friends, I never quite enjoyed their company and felt as though they only saw the image I tried so very hard to portray. I wasn't able to talk as openly as I wished and I would behave in a manner that was different from my usual demeanour  I eventually drew the courage to venture out to make new friends and once I had, I saw no need of remaining part of this clique. He was, undoubtedly, the kindest of this group of boys. He participated in their ridiculous conundrums but one could always notice his reluctance in doing so. I remained in close contact with him and avoided every other member of the clique for this very reason.

Every time I talk to him, I'm reminded of just how far I've come. From the boy who acted like his friends did in order to avoid being ridiculed to the boy who feels completely comfortable in his own skin and quotes Mean Girls where appropriate. He’s still part of that group of friends. He still discusses whether or not it is haram to lick a woman’s breasts, he still judges the couple that makes out in his university’s back shed and still calls the teacher with the larger bottom a whore.

He called the other day and told me ‘People at my university are so stupid; this one kid said that Khyber Pakhsomething was a province.’ He wouldn't believe me when I told him that Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa was, in fact, a province and I didn't bother convincing him. I know I can never really connect with him but as long as he keeps calling, I will continue answering because it’s good to know that all those years ago, in the midst of great uncertainties, I made one good decision; the decision to run as far away from such frustrating stupidity. Maybe I can make another one now.

i.

He looked repulsive and I'd only agreed to sleep with him because he had promised weed. He sat by me, recounting his previous sexual encounters, commending the physical characteristics of the people he had slept with, as if they were his trophies. He lacked all discretion, he revealed, with pride, their names and even their roles in bed. Homosexuals in Pakistan usually abide by a strict code of discretion but today was all about breaking rules so I ignored his crudeness. I kept silent, nodding away, pretending to be interested in what he was saying but hoping he would just take out his stash of weed.

After around twenty anxious minutes he pulled out a plastic bag from his shoe containing what looked like crushed brown autumn leaves. I watched intently as he yanked the filter out of a cigarette and rolled the crushed brown leaves into a piece of paper. He continued speaking but my eyes were fixated on the joint in his hand. He lit it up, sat back in his seat and began to smoke it. After a couple of huffs he handed it to me.

I held it to my lips and inhaled. It felt like any other cigarette and I was almost disappointed by it's lack of effect. I continued smoking, until only the filter remained between my fingers. I slouched back on the sofa and waited for the weed to kick in. I started feeling heavy. I could feel the blood rush through my veins. The furniture in the room began dancing and his voice became this inaudible echoing sound. He offered me chalia saying something about my sugar level. I took it from his hand and dropped it to the ground.

'Where is the wash-room?' I demanded.

'Over there,' he said pointing somewhere, I wasn't quite sure where. I got up and, with immense confusion, found the bathroom. I'd imagined that I'd simply drop my face into the commode and start vomiting but the commode was the Indian kind (a hole in the ground) and my entire body fell to the ground as I tried to release the contents of my stomach. I suddenly realized how empty my stomach was. I hadn't eaten since last night and only managed to make loud puking noises; no puke. He walked into the bathroom and told me to go lie down in his room and in my state of mind I was capable of doing nothing but complying with his suggestions.

I noticed him coming into the room and closing the door behind him. He laid down on top of me pressing his lips against mine. I wasn't aroused but I instinctively pretended to be. I realized how distant I was from him and from everyone else I've slept with. I couldn't even remember his name; I just knew that I didn't really like him. I was in no mood of doing anything sexual and my honest weed induced self felt no shame in telling him this. I knew that we'd agreed to have sex and that the honourable thing to do would be to simply go through with it but my brain capacity had diminished and I felt like a little child. Little children don't pretend to enjoy things they don't enjoy.

He insisted that I'd enjoy myself once he shoves his penis up my ass. He'd told me earlier that he had a condom in his apartment but ignored me now when I told him to put it on. I pushed him away from me and assured him that he wouldn't get to fuck me today. He compromised and a hand-job later, he offered to drop me to a rikshaw.

I knew that I was in no state to go out in public but wanted to be as far away from this man as possible. I sat up and regained some of my sanity. The furniture still danced but I forced myself to focus solely on the task at hand; I had to get away from here.