The Gay Icon Classics of the World (2 page)

In Cupid's early years , before his fate had been bestowed upon him, “desire” did not yet exist in the world. Sex and intimacy were mere acts of reproduction with no emotional pleasure attached.

In his teenage years, Cupid developed into a picturesque image of a god. What a beautiful figure was Cupid, with his perfect white feathers and toned physique. Indeed, many of the gods and goddesses fell in love with him. But, Cupid was uninterested in their love.

Yes, Cupid would sigh as he gazed upon the world that lay below, because he knew his love interests lay somewhere down there. He often wondered what he was searching for, until one day he discovered his fate.

Cupid's eyes gazed upon a mere young lad who was as somber as he. His name was “Desire.” Desire was a destitute farm boy, hand-picked from poverty by a rich, ruthless landowner. He bought Desire for a few gold pieces from his peasant parents, who were desperate for money.

How the sisters of Desire wept for their brother! Now his days were filled with fearful servitude to the heartless man who bought him. One night, while all beings lay asleep, Desire prayed to the heavens to fill his empty life. Desire's beautiful prayers fell upon the ears of Cupid, who was laying among the stars, and Cupid heard the tearful supplications of Desire.

Although it was forbidden for the gods, Cupid wanted so badly to lie next to this young lad that he quickly devised a plan to disguise himself as a mortal bridegroom on his wedding night.

Cupid grabbed his cloak, soaked it in lavender and frankincense, and set out to claim his love on the earth below. Cupid appeared at the bedside of Desire. Desire, so soothed by the sweet scent of Cupid's cloak, closed his eyes and beckoned the stranger to him. He never did see the face of this stranger.

Cupid gave Desire such pleasure that it ignited his soul.

Desire was visited each night by this gentle, sweet-smelling god whose identity he was not to know.

Each morning, before the dawn, Cupid would leave his lover's bedside so as not to be seen by any other mortals. Desire, feeling so alive, asked his secret lover what this amazing experience between them was, to which Cupid replied, “It is love.”

Each day, Desire could not contain this joyful emotion, and shared his news with all he encountered. However, when he was asked, Desire was unable to give the name of his lover. When the sisters of Desire heard of this emotion called “love”, they quickly became jealous of their brother. They wanted to know what this giver of “love” looked like.

The sisters persuaded Desire to trick his mysterious visitor. The next night, as Desire beckoned Cupid into his bed, he offered him wine with sumac berries – to make his
lover sleepy. As they lay in bed, Cupid quickly fell asleep.

When Desire was sure Cupid was asleep, he lit an oil lamp, lifted Cupid's cloak, and gazed upon his lover's beautiful figure. The lamp revealed the form of a beautiful god with soft translucent skin, gentle lips and grand white wings. Under his wings were a bow and a quiver of gilt arrows.

Curious about his lover, Desire reached for his wings but was grazed by the sharp arrow tips. The arrows pricked Desire and drew blood. Desire pulled back from the now bloody arrows and knocked over his bedside lamp, spilling hot oil onto his lover's winged shoulder. Cupid awoke and screamed in agony.

Cupid's cries of pain alerted all earthly beings to his presence. Although injured, Cupid fought off the oncoming crowd of humans who had gathered to see him.

Cupid grabbed his arrows in defense and shot at the crowd. To the humans, pain never felt so fulfilling as when they were pierced by Cupid's arrow. However, death never befell anyone pierced by Cupid's arrow; rather, the feelings of love and desire grew entangled within the mortal's heart.

This interaction between Cupid and Desire was the first embrace between gods and men.

Desire and Cupid were put on trial for beguilement by both mortals and gods alike. For their punishment, Desire was bound to be with Cupid in the heavens for eternity. However, Desire would forever and always remain a mortal. As for Cupid, he shall
resume his battle on earth for eternity giving away his greatest love,
Desire,
one arrow at a time.

He didn't mean to kill him. It was one of those things that happens only to true romantics. “They should blame themselves,” Haakon thought to himself as he cried. Haakon had never really cried before. It was a wonderful feeling.

It all started with a simple question. Haakon wanted to know, “What is love?” Haakon knew that the prince had these feelings but he didn't understand what these feelings were. “It's a feeling from the heart,” said the prince to Haakon. “It pulses through me when I think about you, Haakon.”

Haakon held out his hand. “Let me see it,” he said. “Let me see love.”

When the prince answered that he could not show it in this sense, Haakon laughed and grew impatient for the knowledge of such human feelings. “Perhaps I shall find it in your heart.” Haakon once again held out his hand towards the Prince.

Could romantics be so foolish? So deeply in love was the Prince and so desperate was he to make Haakon feel love that he tore at his chest and reached under his rib cage to produce his very source of life: his heart.

Haakon took the pulsing red object into his hands with such curiosity. As he turned away from the Prince towards the light, he noticed the different chambers that comprised the heart. Blood dripped steadily from his hands and onto the floor around him, but Haakon didn't notice. On the top of the heart were red veined chambers with a yellowish crown. Haakon slowly cut away to see the now-empty bloodless chambers. He cut from south to north ending at the yellow crown. He cut away and peered inside.

To his surprise, there lay the smallest angelic being with wings and a bow but no arrows. The angelic being lay near death and looked up at Haakon with his crystal-like eyes.

“Where are your arrows? Have you lost them in battle? I see no scars,” Haakon inquired. And in the faintest of whispers - so faint that Haakon had to lean in to hear - the angel said, “Look down below you.”

Haakon glanced below to the floor and there, laying all around him, were golden little arrows with heartstrings.

Haakon, in horror, realized who this angel was and what had happened. Unable to penetrate Haakon's cold soul to reach his heart, the arrows laid all about him on the floor. He knew now that this angel was really the god Cupid. He looked at Cupid but Cupid was now dead.

“Oh, my prince, do you see this?” Haakon said while turning to his amorous prince, but he too was dead. The foolish soul didn't know the prince couldn't survive long without his heart. Haakon looked all about him. There lay pools of blood, the golden arrows that failed to penetrate his heart, a dead god and a dead prince.

Gazing at the lifeless corpses, feelings began to pulsate through his veins and his heart beat a sorrowful note. Overcome with remorse, Haakon asked himself, “Is this love?” Haakon will never know.

Sadly, the truth is that in remorse there exists only the glimmer of love which is called “loss.” However, in this glimmer, Haakon knew that he had lost something wonderful—not from one heart but two.

It was a journey that I thought would never end. A journey to the homeland of my mother. It was a hot, endless journey along the Nile from the Egyptian city of Asyut by caravan. The caravan would have several overnight rest stops. The sites were uncomfortable, flea infested, and dimly lit and the food was awful. I would lie awake at night wondering why I was there. The journey was to pay respects to my mother's family, as her father, a man I did not know, had died. I was the only one of my 13 brothers and sisters who was able to go. My mother, a housewife, told me that she was of noble stock from a nomad tribe of what is now known as southeastern Sudan and western Ethiopia.

She married an Egyptian, my father, who was a merchant at the time. He's now a statesman, and with such a position comes arrogance. He has adopted Western ways and Western thinking from the British occupiers. It was easier for him to change to the British lifestyle. He was a Christian. He looked down on my mother's culture and forbade her to tell us anything about it. His insolence overshadowed his heart, for he forbade my mother to attend her own father's funeral.

To be honest, I had no interest in going. However, when I last visited my mother, her cries and pleas that her favorite son go overpowered both my reason and disinterest.

I remember telling Mohammad that I was to go and that it would be one month's journey. He said nothing. Three weeks before I was to leave, I told him again, and still he said nothing. He wasn't a man of many words, which annoyed me. He got up from the bed, as he did every evening, and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in preparation for prayer. I remember the dim light blinding me to his figure in the bathroom. It was my bathroom. Quietly, Mohammad washed his face, hands, and feet and came into the bedroom. I was angry at him. I paid the rent. Muslims always brought their own
sujada
—special prayer rugs (sujada). It always disturbed me him praying like this in my bedroom. As he kneeled facing the same direction – just as he did every night from my room for the last 6 months he'd been with me – I would prop myself up on one arm and watch him from the bed. I studied his beauty. His brown skin that had a sort of reddish hue. Lips so big and black you'd swear they were painted. The contrast was striking on him. His hair in thick black curls. Like me, he was a mix of African colours, cultures, and influences. I want to say that he also looked like me but that would be a lie.

When he was done praying, he went back to the bathroom and washed himself again. He returned to bed. We had sex. As we were resting, Mohammad reached underneath the bed and presented me with a brown scroll; on it were 25 poems written by Tarafah ibn al-'Abd. It was tied with a single red ribbon, with a flower lodged in the knot of the
bow. Mohammad read me poem #6 and poem #10 as I lay there in amazement. It was poem #10 that made me smile. It made us laugh together. The poem was beautiful in some ways, even though it made light fun of desert people. This scroll was a gift. He had never given me anything before - nothing to acknowledge my existence as anything other than a friend. He said that it was for my journey, but I knew it meant more. I was astonished at my realization that for the last six months Mohammad and I made love not just sex. These last 6 months, Mohammad viewed this as his home and me as his partner. I knew that, most of all, this gift meant he would miss me.

I remembered that last night with Mohammad well as I lay in my flea-infested tent wanting the journey to end. I was at my third campsite. That night seemed so long ago. Mohammad's voice was soft and sweet as he read me the poems in Arabic. There were 25 poems written out side by side on the leather scroll. It must have cost him what little he had. I fell asleep each night with the scrolls in my arms.

Mohammad's voice was but a distant memory as the hot sun beat upon the scarfcovered heads of passengers in an overcrowded cart that followed the dirt road which ran along the Nile. Farm animals trailed alongside their owners, who languished in the cart while the hot rays of the sun beat down upon us.

When we reached Nimoli (now southern Sudan), I rode with a herder who had an extra camel that would take me to the Kasrashu Clan campsite.

The Kasrashu Clan was a nomadic tribe that wandered during the Monsoon seasons in search of food and grazing land. These were my mother's people. They were simple people. Tribal. When I arrived at their campsite, I noticed their resemblance to me was strong. There were 76 clansmen, woman, and children. There were also 42 camels and 22 goats amongst them. For clothing, they wore layers of cloth cloaked in various ways.

They were friendly until I addressed them in Arabic. I told them that I was the son of Basamat; grandson of Majdi. No one answered. After several awkward seconds, a lone voice introduced himself in Arabic as Mansour. He was the brother to my grandfather. I asked him how it was that he knew Arabic. He replied that one couldn't barter with the traders in any other language. The Kasrashu Clan spoke only Dinka.

That night, there was a clan gathering and welcoming meal in my honour. The Kasrashu Clan showed their love for me. They treated me as a distant relative who had found his way home. Gifts, song, food, and drink were presented to me by the elder women of the Clan. I found their loving embraces, visions and smells much like my mother's. I missed her but felt her presence among them. I felt more at ease during the meal.

During the festivities, I caught the attention of a young man whose eyes were like black pearls. The young man boldly approached me and told me that he was my cousin Kadaru. I saw a strange resemblance to Mohammad in Kadaru - or was it an illusion?

His smile and interest revealed much as he led me away for the night, and it was in his tent that I slept. It was customary that the day's clothing became your evening blankets. Nomadic tribes were always efficient that way. Kadaru turned to embrace me. His smell was foul but my lonesome body welcomed his advances. All the anguish and all the tiredness of the long journey drained in a compassionate sexual encounter that made me almost euphoric. When it was over, Kadaru and I lay side by side. I stroked his shoulder and arm. He whispered in broken Arabic that he loved me. Although I was euphoric and feeling thankful to Kadaru, I knew he didn't understand the significance of his words. I changed the subject. I asked him how he knew Arabic. He replied that he picked it up from the traders. He admitted that his knowledge of the language was poor but that he wanted to learn more. I didn't know if that was an invitation to me. As he went to stroke my chest his hand fell on the scroll tucked under my covers. I felt embarrassed. My mind brought up visions of Mohammad. Kadaru opened it. He turned to poem #10 and began to read. His reading was poor. His voice hoarse. His reading broke my euphoric spell. His voice, tone, and inflections hurt me like daggers. It wasn't Mohammad. It disturbed me. It wasn't the context of the poem; it was him, this place, its people. It was the wrong voice and I was far away from anything that I felt comfort for or with. I needed Mohammad.