In my younger and, lets say, more virile days, I began writing the first installment in a gay short story romance between an Asian American and a Turkish oil-wrestler. But as like so many things in life, that would-be masterpiece was left by the wayside.
Something of that time lingered though and was rekindled while mapping out what to do in the southwest corner of Europe.
I am enamored, borderline infatuated, sometimes verging on obsession, with Arabic culture, despite not knowing what exactly constitutes “Arabic”. The haunting timbre of the oud immediately conjures in my mind the dissipating heat of a setting sun, endless sand dunes stretching toward a distant horizon, dark olive-complected men huddled around a makeshift fire speaking in hushed yet singsong voices, while above them a darkening cobalt firmament begins revealing tiny pinholes of light.
