Swingers in Dubai

DM hated going to the Greens to pick up dog food, though it was quality stuff for the best price in the various communities in Dubai.

He stopped the car and got out to the large park area that made up the community. At 11am it was filled with late morning walkers and various jobless types – freelancers and gig economy supporters. Scanning the shops on that street, he tried to remember the name of the store.

“AAAAAAAAA,” he heard a scream from behind him getting closer.

Turning around, DM saw his old acquaintance that he had stopped calling due to the latter’s addiction and general asshole behaviour – Amrit. The fellow was dressed in his usual baggy capris and a yellow basketball shirt, the latter of which was out if character for someone who did not follow or play any sport.

Amrit had gotten fatter and shorter, perhaps due the the first issue. Despite these things, what DM had to focus on, other than the screams, was the fact that Amrit was holding a gun.

It seemed at first to be a large handgun. However, it was a regular-sized semi-automatic that just looked larger in Amrit’s small hand.

“Yaaaa paaa attentaaaa naaaa,” Amrit seemed to be screaming as he ran towards DM.

Moving quickly, DM ran around the car and ducked. The slower-moving Amrit paused as he ran up and stopped to catch his breath.

People in the park, the hero types, began moving towards the action.

“Hello sir, stop,” one man with a pot belly said.

“Shaaat thaaa faaack uppp,” Amrit screamed as he walked towards the people with the gun pointing upward (he did not really want to shoot anyone, and was actually afraid of the gun going off).

THUDDDDTTTT!!!!

Amrit lay on the floor and DM stood above him, holding an aluminium folding chair that he had taken from a nearby cafe.

The people in the park moved closer as DM checked to make sure Amrit was not getting up. He need not have worried – the cocktail of a shot to the back of the head and the 2 bottles of cheap liquor the latter had imbibed before the excursion had totally knocked the small man out.

With so many eyes on him, DM began to feel both purposeful and philosophical, like Dharmendra in from of some gaunwalon after having stopped a rape.

“The only thing that can stop a bad man with a gun,” he said, and then rumbled louder, “IS A GOOD MAN WITH A STEEL CHAIR.”

We must note here that it was not a steel chair – 2022 requires lightweight, cheaper material for such things. But the word steel is more impactful than aluminium.

The crowd murmured approval. IG videos were posted, especially of the words that ended the scene.

As the videos drew attention, they came to the ears and eyes of Sheikh Mo, who had incidentally been worrying about rising crime from the current recession. Not wanting to put more police on the streets, and seeing a way to use this social media to an advantage, the sheikh began a campaign to give (sell) aluminium chairs with his face and the UAE flag on it to people in Dubai for 5 dirhams.

Of course one could use the chair to sit, but could also utilize it for self defence. By decree, black chairs were given to men and pink to women; children could get small white chairs.

The idea seemed to take flight at first. People carried the chairs with them everywhere, and were able to use them for self defence as planned by the ruler. A Philippino woman in Media City stopped a thief from grabbing her purse by throwing her pink chair at him as he ran. A Russian man stopped a hate crime being perpetrated on his fellow countryman in a covered parking area by running up brandishing said chair. The media called the kursi campaign a sit-up success.

Unfortunately but predictably, things also went sideways soon. Going to the Thomas Hobbes contemplation on the goodness of man, it turned out that people would often use the chair for nefarious purposes.

At the Dubai Mall KFC, a British man – the sort of chap who kept complaining on online forums about how “those people” refused to learn to queue – swung his chair at an Indian who broke into the line. Six stitches were needed.

An Iranian man who parked in 2 stalls at Business Bay was railed by an irate Sri Lankan delivery driver who swung from his scooter as he rode by.

Things hit fever pitch when an Emirate in Jumeriah 5 went berserk at a shawarma shop when his 3 horn squawks were not listened to. He ran into the shop and went mental on everyone in there with his chair that he had bedazzled at one of the new chair customization shops that had sprung up recently.

A Dubai Fetish in Toronto

John, better known as Johnny-Boy or JB, was standing on his usual corner of Spadina in the spring sun, feeling that he may have started the day too early.

He was feeling a bit hung over from the party last night, and especially the cocktail of rum, Sprite and qualudes he had taken in quick succession. His mouth felt like it was made of gummy worms, and he could still taste spunk.

It was more than one flavour of spunk.

Luckily, JB had that asset that many gay men in Toronto dreamed – the ability to bounce back from a night of hard drinking with the gusto of a new mattress spring – with very little result to his outward appearance.

No matter how many Big Macs he threw back at the end of a wild night or substances he mixed, he looked like a fresh daisy the next day.

His ass hurt though.

However, he needed to get money for rent, and so was on Spadina hoping for a quick score or two before he headed out for Saturday night drinks with the boys.

“Hey hoho.”

“The fuck you calling ho,” JB asked as he spun around to face the voice.

It was a portly man – one as wide as a door frame with a large belly and developing hunch. He was bald and kept pulling his t-shirt with one hand where it kept outlining his man-breast.

“No no, hoho. I said hello hoho.”

“What are you, Santa?”

JB had fucked worse. Far worse. And a Santa fantasy was not on his definite no list.

“No, I…”

“Speak up.”

The man hmmed and cleared his throat, which led to an even fainter voice that seemed to come from the back of his throat somewhere.

“So what do you wanna do, handsome?”

The man blushed and almost moved his shoulders inward in shyness. Poor idiot, JB thought. He was going to fleece this kind of chump.

“Hoho, hmm, fantasy houseboy.”

“Oooh naughty stuff big man. You want me to be your little house boy? Clean your room wearing my thong?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“No-“

_________________

The basement unit had a smell like mouldy cheese meeting wet socks. JB was quite sure that Kamal – that was the fat fellow’s name – was the sort that hired someone once a month when the loneliness got crippling.

Shy bears was what they called Kamal’s type in the Village.

“No don’t take off your shirt.”

“What do you mean? You want to fuck with clothes on?”

“No fuck…”

The voice seemed to go further back in Kamal’s throat whenever JB looked at him. For this reason, JB tried to look away from him while keeping him in his peripheral vision, in case he tried anything funny. Just a month ago one of the lads woke up dead in a hotel alley bin with a knife in his stomach.

“My fantasy…”

_________

Standing at the airport, JB could barely believe what was happening. The Uber ride there had not removed any of the strangeness of the situation.

“So I just get on the plane and go to the Bahamas?” JB said each word slowly like he was talking to an imbecile.

“Yes, hoho.” Kamal had his hands together like a woman in the 1950s who had just finished her housework for the day.

“Okay then,” he said as he hesitantly began walking.

At the unit, JB had done some light cleaning as Kamal watched. He was asked to do the cleaning badly, which was a treat since usually clean freaks required a good clean and a hard fuck. The fat man required neither. Instead, Kamal walked over with a cologne bottle and spoke to JB once he finished the few minutes of cleaning.

Though he could not hear much of what was being said, JB knew it was something about breaking the bottle.

They then got in the Uber to come to the airport. As he had said, Kamal before leaving booked JB a round-trip ticket to the Bahamas for two days.

“Fucken show you,” Kamal had said as he handed JB the printed ticket.

As JB walked, he remembered the instruction and stopped to turn around. Kamal slowly put his sweaty hands on his hips and said something with his small mouth that JB could not hear.

However, he had heard Kamal practice the line several lines in the Uber. It was the line he always wished he had been able to deliver in Dubai when his family had deported their houseboy, only to have him come back in a few months.

“That’s right bitch, I canceled your visa. I’m a big man.”

JB tried not to laugh as he turned and began walking away, having followed all the instructions.