Love Affair with a Straight Man

by Diego

Once upon a time in Europe, I met this straight Muslim guy from Tunisia and we fell cinematographically in love. He was so untainted by Western culture he didn't know the difference between homo and heterosexuality. He just thought certain people were made to penetrate (men) and others were made to get penetrated (women and faggots).

Even though I did have this piece of meat dangling from between my legs, he didn't see me as a guy. He called me "my wife", got angry if he ever got a glimpse of my dick and expected me to always walk behind him on the street. Whenever I was riding him he would say: "stop it, you have to let me do it". Any sign of me taking charge of anything seemed to belittle him. As if it took very little for him to suddenly become aware that I was, in fact, not exactly a female.

We lived this crazy, intense, expensive, trans-Atlantic love affair for about a year. I introduced him to the Internet and taught him how to use Messenger so we could keep in touch. I was afraid once he saw the doors of the gay world widely open he would leave me for another fag; of for Meth and bath houses. But that never happened. And there was something inexplicably toxic, and yet fulfilling, about being the only fag he had ever fucked. But, also, such a frail link, threatened by any female presence.

He introduced me to his straight Arabic buddies as his "brother-in-law" and to his veil-clad mother as a "good friend". But they all knew what was going on. And since it was so obvious who was "the guy" and who was "the girl", they didn't care.

We would work out together at a cheap gym in the ghetto of Paris, then walk hand-in-hand by the Estade de France talking about nothing and wishing America was just another country in Europe so we could be truly together.

But the last time I flew to see him his behavior was very odd. He would make secretive phone calls and not come home certain nights, alleging he had to "take care of some business". He wasn't a drug dealer nor a hustler, so that could only mean one thing: a woman.

I confronted him and he denied it. He deplored any of my attempts to unmask him. It was a silent pact: he pretended I had no phallus, I pretended he didn't love women.

But when he took me to the airport I knew it would be the last time I'd see him. He would marry some white bitch who gave him the time of day, have kids, gain citizenship, maybe even get a job.

We kept in touch for a few weeks. But, out of the blue, one day he left me a strange voicemail saying: "I don't understand why you keep calling me, don't call anymore, don't try to understand it, just don't talk to me again."

It crushed my world, and all of the little unrealistic hope I had of one day reconnecting with him, giving continuity to our unlikely fairy tale. So I never called. But thought about him every day for a year. Which is when, shockingly, he sent me an email with his new number saying: "Hi, how are you? You can call me." As if nothing had happened. As if he'd expected me to stay put, waiting for when he decided to drop his woman and come back to me. Like that story of the dog who waited for his soldier owner every day, completely oblivious to the fact that one could die. And never return.

So now I find myself stuck between the masochistic pleasure of calling him back -- to listen to his voice, to re-ignite old illusions -- or to shield myself in pride and let him be the one to suffer now. What do you think?

For more Diego, click here.