DIARY OF ANNE DJIBOUTI

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WHY THE WOMAN MUST LEAVE THE KITCHEN

It seems that something has to be taken away for it to be appreciated. The electric goes out, but your culinary skills revolve around pushing buttons that say either 'meat', 'fish', or 'popcorn'. The water is turned off. Yikes, poop won't flush with gravity alone. You're an American who decided not to vote in the 2004 election, cause you thought all politicians were the same. You're driver's license is suspended. You've been living on your own for a long time, pursuing your career. You called home out of holiday guilt. Maybe stopped by for a dinner when you were in town. Now Dad's dead. You decided to move to the Arabian Peninsula. The arrow landed on Yemen. Something isn't right. But what? The people treat you like a King. The weather is sunny and temperate. The food is tasty. The living is cheap. But public life seems a bit bland. It's social. There are people everywhere chatting, eating, laughing. But there's a lack of something. Something with color. And cheer. Something beautiful. Women. Christ, what took so long? Most people are used to always having both sexes around, and just figure that's how life goes. They probably don't have any more appreciation for one sex over the other, and could dole out complaints or compliments about either. Sure, there are women in Yemen, but men can't talk to them in public, and they appear merely as walking 'its' mourned in black, completely eviscerating their femininity. What we're talking about is the importance of woman's physicality, or her ability to utilize that any way she chooses. A note of warning: A bias piece will ensue, based on a heterosexual male's perspective.


The Arab Muslim's perception of woman revolves too much around the aspects of jealousy as it relates to sexual intercourse. There is a feeling that since men are natural procreators, apparently on constant prowl for a mate, that the only way such an appetite can be quelled is to turn women's public domain into a fashion show of asexuality. Responses from Yemeni men in particular, when questioned as to their views on the out-of-house female include, "I don't want any other man looking at my sister or wife" or "Men will harass the girl if she is not covered and will harm her" or "the only way to control our sexual urges is to prevent us from being aroused, which is why the women must remain like that" or "we are not permitted to have sex outside of marriage or before we marry so it is wrong for the women to tempt us" or the two generic fallbacks: "Islam says it must be" or simply "It's our culture."


Certain things can not be repressed. Isn't it Western Religion that came up with the Forbidden Fruit? Residents of secular societies, where relations with the sexes are open, and women have free choice in their dress and interactions, are so accustomed to open displays of sexuality that they are not consumed with thoughts of rape and harassment at every pass of tight jeans or exposed cleavage. Maybe it's why the Dutch don't really smoke that much Pot. And French college students don't get concussions doing KegStands. And why the Chinese don't get tattoos with their own lettering.


There is a duality that runs concurrently with Life. The Planet may know it as the Sun and the Moon. Soil and Water. Fire and Air. Electrons and Protons. Coke and Pepsi. And within the human realm, if we leave out eunuchs, transgenders, and Boy George, we have da Woman (sometimes referred to by its militant crewcut dykebitch man hating synonym 'womyn') and da Man.


Islam teaches that all life must be respected. From the tiniest organisms to the remotest trees to individuals of all races. And that Allah, or as some know him - The Dude… with the really long beard, created a beautiful world that we could see his (sorry womyn, but religious dictates mandate a masculine pronoun when referring to the master deity or high level prophet not currently a Wiccan) beauty all around us. Every living thing is said to be an embodiment of Allah, and whenever nature should enchant us, we are actually feeling the beauty that is Allah. Atheists claim it's all merely a result of evolution. And that every component of a living organism serves a purpose in its continued survival. So just as a deer should keep it's antlers, a woman wasn't born to have her body entombed by cloth. Amongst the mammal kingdom, what creature can deliver such beauty as the female human.


WHY THE FUCK WOULD AN ALL-LOVING GOD, WHO WANTS HIS SUBJECTS TO FEEL BEAUTY AT EVERY POSSIBLE MOMENT CHOOSE TO BLACK-OUT HIS MOST PRECIOUS CREATION?


Why should a Man miss the public appearance of a free willed Woman?


Flirtation. A word so slandered that it begs like a Calcutta cripple of Mother MerriamWebster to bequeath a new title. It's very name implies infidelity. Or mischief. Something sinister. Others may argue it's merely a segue to friendship or mutually agreed upon intimacy. And there's that one guy in the bar who would just yell 'Cocktease' (I wonder if there is a woman in some bar, right now, berating a man for being a 'CuntTease.'). But he'd still spend the rest of his night talking to her.


And it's with that decision, when a man knows that he has no chance, or perhaps no real interest, to sleep with a woman, that the importance of flirtation begins to appear. The Muslims could argue that it's Allah speaking. It's within this paradigm that the power, the truly awe-inspiring power, of human sexuality can be felt. Intercourse certainly falls into this family. But it occupies a different level, as it has physical limitations, and can not be accessed on a continuous basis, throughout the day and night. Even with Viagra or a Swinger's Club Gold Membership (on sale at swingersgoldmembership.net, use promotion code 'fuk4less').


When a male waiter serves another male, the customer normally has a very forgettable experience. Not negative, but engaged in such an unconscious manner that no positive energy would have ever been felt. But before we give the clearly known example of female waitress encounters, let's digest the often overlooked Gay Male waiter to male customer interaction. Sure, among some men there is marked uncomfort that silently wishes that it would all go away, and Shirley would come back with his regular order of two over easy and a side of burnt hash. But a number of hetero identifying males will confess to flirting with their Gay Waiter. Is it cause they dig his tight Zcavaricci pants or nipple popping t-shirt? Maybe they are really the legions of latent homos that the United Homo Federation has been promising exist since the Kinsey Report. C'mon, aren't these guys who would really like to screw another guy but can't quite get the nerve to do it, so they defer to flirtation to get their rocks off? No. Well, at least the majority. They do it cause it feels good. Simple. They're playing with positive energy. A term those crystal wearing meditators of the NewAge, who reside in places like Sedona and Santa Fe, have ruined to the point of mockery. It's a two word set-up, but maybe that crippled Calcuttan can add another request to Mother Merriam. By appearing interested in the waiter's life, and laughing with him, and keeping a smile on, and maybe leaving out the customer's relationship status, then the waiter feels a sexual impulse toward this customer. To pursue the drive, the waiter responds with flattery, in a chance attempt that this encounter can lead to a passionate Dirty Sanchez in Stall number 4. The man at the table now feels desired. Wanted. Who doesn't want to feel wanted? Even misanthropes want that feeling. That's why they have dogs. Those hairy hermits in the Alaskan Wild, they may not have human company but you can bet an Eskimo's frozen ass that a pack of canines is crawled up in MooseJaw McDermott's bed, completely ignorant of a stench so foul that it could make "Wildflower Dog Poo" Target's potpourri of the month. So, you're feeling wanted. And you don't want it to stop. So you keep doing what got you Wanted in the first place. Flirting. Eventually, in most situations, at least one party will have to continue their day, having no sincere interest other then a short-lived positive encounter. And because one person is always in control, if the other party becomes determined that the flirtation is a genuine invite to Xanadu, then the controlling flirter only need remove him/herself and the opposing flirter will fly briefly into a post-flirtation dream cloud before recognizing that there was no hope of a real liason. So they'll continue in their mundane ways until the next flirt comes along, and Allah is showing himself once again. Ok. Sometimes the flirt continues. And both parties really enjoy it. And an issue arises when one side is feeling more serious then the other. Most common in workplaces. Make it known. Stop it. And the one who took things too serious will get over it. Why? Cause there's a million other women/men to flirt with. The joys of living in a sexually open society.


The Flirting Fenomenon is more widespread than many people consciously acknowledge. It's both a survival tactic and a quick way to feel good. This is not based on obvious sexual innuendo, but simply in the way one uses their eyes, the pitch in their voice, and their physical gestures. Watch a woman trying to get assistance from a male cop, or a woman dealing with an auto mechanic, an appliance repairman, the famed Cable Guy, the more famed landscaper and romance novel superstar, the Pool Boy. Not to mention innumerable sales people, co-workers, clients, and any other man who has something of value. Do these guys feel duped, led-on, angry? No way, they're probably 'buzzed' for the next hour off the way she made them feel. They realize there's no real opportunity there. But what if those encounters couldn't exist. Because the woman couldn't deal directly with the man, or because she was unable to show her physical beauty and therefore had nothing to flirt with, or just because she was raised to think that all men were going to corrupt her so her encounters should be limited. How fair is that? To deprive humanity of nature's fine little gift, a little diamond radiating out of a monotonous desert day. Shame. Yes, that's right. I say SHAME on the otherwise accommodating Yemenis. And the converse can easily be applied to men's dealings with the opposite sex, from his postal woman to his drycleaner to the girl at his local bakery. Home. Work. Sleep. How often in those robberbarons of time does one feel desired, feel special, and just down and out feel good? Flirting is a monetary tip transacted emotionally. And who doesn't feel a little better after getting an unexpected tip. It's a reminder of what it feels like to truly be alive, to feel the heart pumping force of your sexual being. In a land where only 50% of humanity publicly exists, its no wonder such high importance is placed on the Almighty, all-loving, all-beauty Allah. Cause without his perpetual striptease, life would be painfully mundane. Or incredibly homoerotic.


The power of a woman's smile. Unknown to those in the veil covered streets of Arabia. But a woman's smile is truly a portable little sun, available to tan all those who get in its ray. It's like arriving on the sea shore after driving across the desert. The sound of the gulls. The salt water smell. The warm breeze. The t-shirt shops depicting what a woman looks like after 10 beers. That first feel of pillowy grains under your bare feet. It's that. All at once. You only saw her for a brief second. But the smile stayed with you for far longer. A shitty day is forgotten about in an instant. Normally, people resort to harmful drugs to reach that point. And just as the male waiter scenario shows it doesn't have to be about sex, or lead to sex…the smiling woman doesn't have to conform to modern definitions of beauty. Maybe her teeth do. But even that can be overlooked. Have you ever gotten angry when a toothless granny flashed you a big ol' smile? Sure a pretty face helps. But even if she has to walk sideways through her front door, there is no way you're departing that smile with anything other then a good feeling. A man's smile doesn't exactly hurt. But it doesn't tingle the way a woman's does. Her smile is a natural Zoloft, spewing serotonin into a temporary Eden that has no place for mounting debt and the quarterly report that was due last Tuesday. Living in a world without a female's smile is a Kafkaesque imprisonment of Marxist despair. Look how serious all those Commy chicks were. That's the underlying secret to the Manifesto's failure, as it neglected to highlight the positive motivation that a woman's smile inspires. Probably the result of Karl spending too much time with a bunch of Blabbering Bourgeousie males obsessed more with the proletariat then the Power of Punani. If Marx and Engels wanted their societies to wait in day long lines for basic products and work tedious government jobs they should have had the common sense to realize that life without color, without fashion, and really without the sparkle of Her Smile was doomed to fail. All these balding CNN scholars preaching the innate desire that allegedly repressed people have for capitalist democracies led to the Red Star's entropy. Nonsense. If those states were only full of smiling fashionable women, the hammer and sickle would still be swinging today.


Fashion. It's the advent of clothing, against the wishes of the Creator, that have allowed women to showcase their beauty, regardless of figure. Good Fashion lets a woman highlight her natural figure rather then be anorexically ashamed of it. Men tend to get irritated at the shopping escapades most females relish, and your author, the esteemed Enrico, who once publicly lambasted a girlfriend for spending too much money on a pair of jeans because she claimed they 'fit just right and do you know how hard it is to find a good fitting pair of jeans?' has been converted by the most unlikely of sources. Arabian Islam. So I say to all you men ranting at your women's insatiable appetite for clothes -- Unleash your panty wearing Hound. Let her Go. And when she comes home, ask her to try it on. Complement her. And keep count of how many people, of both sexes, check her out. If the response is unflattering, then send her back to the Mall. Because the alternative is to live in a world of Ugly. And we don't want that. Imagine a city full of Lane Bryants. Or go the American MidWest. But look at India. Here's a sexually conservative country, in terms of promiscuity, that finds beauty on every street, in every village. Women choose from an endless pantheon of fabrics and jewels, and robe themselves in such a way that each is unique and the sidewalks are fully loaded arsenals of beauty. It's impossible to not be infected by it. The Muslims of East Africa dress in a similar manner, finding a way to cover their head loosely, with something colored rather then black and in a way that the face is still fully exposed. Just across the Red Sea, their Muslim brothers are faulting Islam, but it's clearly not the case. There are a number of women who get upset at their spouses/partners for looking at other women. But they wouldn't stop their hubbies from going to an art exhibit or taking a hike through the canyon, so why should they deny him another form of natural beauty. Lack of trust. Jealousy. The same issues Arab Muslims deal with. But talk to the non-jealous woman. And you'll usually find a lady of confidence. Understanding. Appreciation. And most likely, someone living in a relationship far more satisfying then those dominated by the Eyes-On-Me Only Gestapo.

Walking in streets, and sitting in restaurants vacant of females is akin to a night without stars, a lake without water, A hot fudge sundae without the fudge, a winter-time Hot shower with no hot water, Pillsbury Dough without the Man, Dr. Julius Irving without the Afro, Fantasy Island without the Little Plane Guy. And to shroud them in non-form fitting black is only insulting both sexes, and if anything, making men more curious about what lies beneath the fabric coffin.


Fashion is Art for the masses, whether you live in Paris or Po-dunkville. And a world without Art is Cold-War Communist. And who's forgotten the face of those dreary olive rag draped Soviets in Red Square. How festive did that look? Night of the Living Dead. Every day. Lucky for all that Glasnostian Gorb made good use of his supernatural head stain to transform Russians, and especially rusky women, into some of the finest female specimens walking today.


Good architecture, Murals, Gardens, Sculptures, Music…it's all Art that makes life more enjoyable. But fashion is the most readily accessible version of all. The senses are awakened, if not aroused. It's not only men who feel more alive when they come across a fashionable woman, as its normally the woman is doing the looking. To live in a world without fashion is akin to a life holed up in the gated communities of Wisteria Burqas and Frumpy Meadows. If urban environments are still able to tantalize and invigorate, their antagonist is the modern American suburb where Art has been reduced to a sort of overpriced mass manufactured communism where homes, furnishings, and fashions blend seamlessly to form giant gobs of vomit, blemishing the human potential for Beauty.


Intimacy. Not the kind on the bearskin rug in the Mountain Lodge with the Pleasure Chest unlocked. Just simple public displays of affection. Sure, some Western prudes harp about this, but they haven't gotten over their own version of Republican Arabian Repression. It would be pretty frightening if you never saw a couple holding hands, a goodbye drop-off kiss in the car, a hug on the corner, hands meeting over a table's candlelight, a deep kiss just out of the streetlight's glare. Why? Cause even when you're alone, on your way to somewhere, each of those instances is a reminder of something joyous you've experienced. Like that one song you hear on the radio. It's a pleasant flashback. A moment to dream. Maybe even covet, but that's not exactly negative, even if she is your neighbor's wife. It's another one of those little things in a free society that people take for granted. Those witnessed moments are a sweet reminder of something you've experienced and look forward to having again. To put this in straight guy's lingo: It's being drunk at 3am and seeing some dude wolfing down a big slice of pizza. That's all positive. Not a negative thought in your head. You're thinking, "man, I love the taste of pizza. I've had so many good slices of pizza in my life. Yum. I can taste it already. You know what. I think I want to get me a slice of that [Burp]." So you do. And you don't regret a single bite. If it wasn't for the public display of pizza eating, you would have never experienced that end of the night climax that thrust you into a peaceful slumber. Now imagine living in a world where you could get drunk but there was no one around when the bar closed eating a slice of pizza. No one to remind you of the tasty joys of debauched pizza sauce on crisp oven baked dough with Sausage. Not the little mouse crap Domino's variety but those thick spicy butcher slices. You don't know where you are and everything looks closed. Your buzz faded and now you feel like shit. You're not even thinking about food cause it doesn't seem feasible. You're just an angry drunk on his way to a bad night's sleep and a morning of liquid turd.


Female Friends with No oozing benefits. A guy needs them. And not for the power of flirtation, even if that is present, but rather for the dynamic that is unobtainable in male friendships. Some men like Oprah but they're not going to discuss it at the Poker Table. Others need tips on how to apply their eyeliner. A few need help on that tough knitting pattern. One or two need personal instruction on that pie crust, the one that one the regionals. And of course, plenty just want to bitch about that one reality tv show freak. A man should be able to go for dinner with a female friend, so he can discuss his relationship, his work life, his hobbies, whatever. Cause a woman is always going to give an entirely different perspective then a man, and its important for somebody trying to make a decision to draw a conclusion based on both sexes, as all issues have elements that fall into both the female and male categories. C'mon. Guys like chocolate. And brownies. And all manner of sweet things, but you don't see Peter and Joe meeting at the Sweet Shack for an afternoon chat. They can only do that with a lady friend. Guy's don't bring guys shopping with them. Since when did a straight man care what another straight man thought about his wardrobe? Many a relationship has been saved by a man's external platonic female friendships. So when Yemen men complain to other men about their relationships, which they invariably do, they're only going to be met with back-slapping support not constructive advice. Their wives will continue to suffer at the hands of an unhelpful husband. All those men do the same thing so how is he ever going to learn a woman's perspective in order to make things right.


But let us go back to those poor unsuspecting Arabians. Especially in Yemen. Look what happened in America after 300 years of conservative Puritan influence on sexual behaviours. The mass movement of the late 60's inspired a global change in sexual attitudes and changed the dynamics of family life forever. Plus, it increased the amount of bra toxins put into the air. And before that, at least the women could go as they pleased on the streets, and wear a variety of clothes. Couples even held hands. But imagine a culture where women have been off limits to men for at least 1500 years, through both physical visibility and public social interaction. The Sexual Revolution of Yemen will make the American 60's look like a Mississippi Baptist Revival. It's starting already. Peering out through the bottom of ninja frocks are bellbottom jeans and high heeled boots. Stores are openly selling lingerie and small t-shirts. And boys are using their mobile phones to watch downloaded videos of Flashdance era strippers. It's only a matter of time until the only thing under a woman's frumpy black frock are fishnets and a pair of nipple clamps. Women are now occupying more University space then men as schools have discovered that the Yemen woman is bright and driven compared to her slacking, family connection dependent male counterpart. Even the workplaces are seeing the benefit in employing women as they are said to have better attendance rates, take instruction better, and have an overall higher productivity rate. It's like being in Cuba in 1958. Or 1978 Iran. Or 1988 Berlin and Bucharest. You feel the momentum brewing. It's not a matter of 'IF', but 'WHEN.' When the Revolution hits, it will hit hard. Hospitals will be filled to capacity with cumshot wound victims. Imagine the ferocity with which ejaculate will unleash after a lifetime of captivity. The open galleries of mosques will be over-run with fornicating orgies redefining the call to prayer. Shouts of 'Oh Allah, OhOhOh..OhAllah, Oh my Allah, You're the Best, Oh my fuckin' Allah, you are amazing. I can't believe how good you are.'


The elders will have no choice but to accept that the youth have found a new way to discover the Almighty, and perhaps they too will join the fray. The women of The Revolution will make Pamela Anderson look like a pale-faced prude living alone in her feline frenzied home of cross guarded walls. Their undulating cleavage will provide ravines of prayer and hope for the minions of passing males. Two millennia of repression will lead to savage reprisals upon their breast-less captors. Women, who already are proving the better student and better employee in Yemen, will take full control. Men will be left to chew their narcotic leaves and drink tea, taunted by sexual possibilities but plagued by garter belt donning GI JANE ALIS waiting for the slightest provocation. Women will run the government, the businesses, the community. They'll fuck when they want to fuck. They'll use men for their sperm and leave them to wallow in their own self-absorbed laziness. Men will be reduced to groveling dogs, hanging out in disheveled packs, waiting for their masters to come home so they can beg for some scraps. And they'll be tormented by her sexuality. They'll be no flirting in this Revolutionary society. Only one sided tortures of desire. These Revolution Ladies will wear silk teddies and high heels just to run the smallest of errands. Cause they can. It's their world now. And around the house, they'll remain covered until the man has left for the day. And for those women who think the treatment is harsh, old video clips will run daily on the telly depicting life before the Revolution. Queen Sheba shall at last return to the Arabian Peninsula. Sure, the divorce rate will increase, and the birth rate may drop below one, but daily life will never prove dull. And once that first generation of naysaying men croak off into their subterranean hells of pigfire, a future Male will see those replaying videos, out of the corner of his eye, when he's making out on his working mother's couch with that girl, with the dyed green hair and nice rack, the one in Mr. Al-Khoud's 3rd hour Geometry Class, and wonder how anybody ever lived like that.


This is Al-Qaeda's real complaint. They're tired of being cockteased by American movies. They've seen all the Red Shoes Diaries they can handle, even with the subtitles. If they see one more film with Sandra Bullock in it, another building is going down. And they're really fed up with Katie Couric. She's just not cute to them anymore. These are merely an angry band of sexually repressed men, who don't have the courage to free the Muslim woman. They only know how to abuse select passages of the Koran. But, c'mon, they're men. Culture, Religion, it's all a façade. Whoever bestowed the Almighty Creation didn't differentiate between continents. A happy man is a man who has physically visible access to free women. These guys, these poor terror mongers have been subject to racial discrimination. Men prefer women of their own ilk. Otherwise you'd see more Mexicans marrying the Chinese (strange coupling, good dinner menu). But they've had no choice as the local society gives them no outlet. What they need is a fellow muslim babe to flirt with over a bowl of falafel. They need to feel the smile of a woman on her way to the madrassa. They need to be uplifted from their dreary ascetic ways by a rainbow of curves and bounces teeming in the streets. And they need a new female strategy on how to deal with Khalid's refusal to bomb that embassy after his wife chewed him out for spending all his time in the caves while neglecting his family, and forgetting to attend little Abdul's 1st Koran recital. If the Women revolt, and show their natural selves, there is no way these fundamentalist freaks can remain in pissed off jihad mode. You only need look at the religious population of America. Despite pronounced secularism, America remains a deeply religious country, with many people falling into the fundamental extreme religious camp. But why aren't they bombing and terrorizing (abortion clinics are not really related to a woman's ability to express beauty), when the way many American women dress and act is in direct opposition to their beliefs. Here's why. Cause every day, on their way to that solemn household where a large wooden cross hangs somberly over the white lattice tablecloth harboring a Tupperware bin of day old apple pie, or journeying to their Sanctuary of Prayer, they chance upon some beautiful woman. She may smile at him, or flirt a bit. But most likely she simply passed by. And despite his most public convictions, he felt good, even for an instant. So, like a typical Republican, he may continue to pontificate the evils of modern feminism, but late at night, when his imagined parishioners are nowhere near, and he's falling asleep on his worn plaid lazy-boy, a feeling of joy will appear upon the memory of Her. Fleeting, perhaps, but an apt deterrent to any sincere hope of repression. In the end, if anyone is going to tease the cocks of Terror, it's going to have to be the Women of Arabia. They're the only ones with the finesse to soften rigidity.

Mohammed, Mohammed, Wherefore art thou Mohammed?

He grabbed my arm within an hour of being in the city. "Hey Man, where you from, do I know you? C'mon Man, Why not you speak to me? America, hey, alright man, I love the America, I was living in Texas, you know Texas. Hey man, don't you worry, you're my friend."

If somebody approaches you like that, in any country, things will only get worse, so you best be movin' on along. Especially if they lived in Texas. But he kept following me. "We gonna be friends, why I don't show you around. America. Yeah. Dallas. You know that place, right. I friend with the nigger people there. They my homeboys now. Yeah, America is great place. I love the America woman. She beautiful man. I want to make me one American girl. They the best…"

He didn't stop. You're fortunate to find somebody in Yemen who is relatively fluent in English. And when that moment comes, it's a good idea to befriend if some insight into local culture is desired. But this guy, he made you regret knowing your mother's tongue. A gangly 20 year old with an oblong cranium and an anteater's nose. A cheap polyester blazer covered a Chinese knock-off on a bad American t-shirt (UNIOUN PACIFIK). And a tight pair of Jordache cemented the deal. The words were definitely a version of English. But they poured out in high pitched tones doused with odd grammar sequences and American ghetto imitiations. And the mouth just kept going, "Hey, whatever you want man, I'm Ali Aziz. Everybody they know me. You want tour. I make for you special tour. Maybe women. I bring you the best women…"

"There are no women in Yemen. Actually, I think your country name means what you get here. Yeh. Men."

"What you talking about Man, we have the beautiful woman here."

"Maybe in your imagination."

"C'mon man, this good place for the woman. Hey, look at her…[directing his heckles to some veiled thing] Hey Lady, why you no come and meet my friend. He American. You are the beautiful baby. I be see you."

"Did you know her?"

"Of course, man, I know everypeople"

"I have never seen a guy hit on a girl in the street here, You know what, I've never even seen a man talking to a woman in public before. And how the hell could you know her if all you can see are some eyes."

"Hey, look at that one. It's how they walk. And how they look you. You know them."

"This is absurd. You're hitting on a walking ghost. A friggin' ninja, dude. They can't even stop to talk with you, AND they've got no sex to show. Just that frumpy black sheet"

"Ninga, what this. I tell you, man, I am Ali Aziz. Everybody they a know me. C'mon, you take walk with me. I show you city. You are my MAIN Man. Friends, yes?"

Street Hustlers. Turkish carpet guys. Moroccan backsheesh guides. 42nd street fake ID men. They're really quite harmless. That's why their hustlers. Otherwise, you'd have a knife to your back. You only need fear the eventual sales pitch, quick money loan I'll pay you back. And unlike Time-Shares, there's no free VCR just for listening. So, amuse yourself, and upon purchase request, start walking away. No prob.

Through a souk full of overflowing raisin bins, burning frankincense and weathered men forging metal, we wound our way around the lost in time Old City.

"Hey Man, you have wife America. I like American wife. So nice. In Texas, I see me She-Man before. Serious. I think her beautiful man. Ali Aziz likes. Then close she come. She have this thing (point's to adam's forbidden apple). Yeah, that. The apple, it keep moving. I say, shit man, this not woman. So I yell her. Yes, I yell her, 'You bitch, you bitch. Why you like that. That crazy. You fucking bitch.' Then I hit. Her hit in head. Crazy person."

"Why did you get so offended? That's our free country. I'm surprised you guys don't have more of them. Since you've eliminated the public face of woman, that's your best bet. Shit, I've probably got the longest hair many of these guys have seen outside their house."

"Yeah man. You are cute one. Seriously, I like the American woman, but not the she-man. You like smoke the shisha. I take you place to do the smoke. Fuck shit man, Texas no having this. You like."

15 minutes later we were in some travel shop cum Arabian pillow fairytale. Very clever. In local tourism's infancy, a few suckers would definitely fall in here.

"Look, I'll hang out and smoke with you. I'll have some tea, but I'm not going on a tour, and I'm not buying any souvenirs. Just remember I told you this before we ever sat down."

"Hey Man, you think I fuck you, I'm not a fucking with a you.You my friend. Enrico and Ali Aziz. Two man that like to catch the ass. Trust with me Man. This just place I work sometime. I think you like to rest here."

There was no charcoal for the hookah. The slovenly owner was chomping away on the Qat leaves, oblivious to his protégés wooing. The tea was a shot of sugar with a splash of water. But the ghetto superstar was right. Not a single offer to mount camels or sleep in payrolled villages. No Chinese crafted locally sold jewelry. No swords. No one of a kind hand-stitched turbans manufactured by the ton. He really did just want to talk.

In a traditional society, where sex roles have changed little over the past two millennia, the tsunami of globalization promises upheaval. It's only a question of 'how much?' And in a nation where 70% of the population is under 24, elderly conservatism will surely lose out. Men, especially those of Arabia, have misconstrued (or not?) Islam for the past 1400 years to gain final say over women. Where she goes? What she does? Who she's with? And of course, what she wears. The traditional Islamic societies of the Arabian Peninsula are plagued with jealous men who feel that only a husband has the right to see his woman. And as stated clearly in the Koran, despite contrary verses suggesting otherwise, a woman is to obey her man.

So, who better then the Youth to guide an outsider to the future of this society. Especially those who have direct contact with the Infidel's World. Ali Aziz was no longer an unsuccessful spastic hustler, but a window into Arabia's post-modernity. And perhaps the living embodiment of western cinematic influence.

"Since you seem so keen on meeting women, and lived for a bit in the States, do you now disagree with the veil and lack of public contact between man and woman."

"Yeah Man. I love the woman (blows kiss in the air). She is beautiful Man. Why you ask this. You are love the woman. I know this. Ohhh. She is great."

"Yeah, I know you dig women, but that wasn't my question. Do you think it's ok now for the Yemen women to take off the veil, the black frocks, and have social interaction with men in public."

"Hey, what you talking Man. The Yemen woman not going to do this, Man. No way. She can't. I don't want some man looking at my sister, or my mother, or my wife. Then he is going to want the sex from her. No way, Man. This is the tradition. Yemen people."

"But you like the American women cause you can see what they actually look like. You can talk to them. You probably even touched them. They make you feel happy when you pass them on the street, and you are never having sex with them. Its just a positive feeling. I thought you would want this at home."

"Yeah, of course, I like the American. She nice. But we can't have here. Not possible. The people will not like. They curse the woman. 'You bitch. You are bitch. What you wear.' We yell her. We tell her go home. No one like this. Your woman, ok. We like. But if Muslim woman, I yell her and hit to her if she not go to her house."

Unbelievable. His attitude mirrored those of older men, and those who had no contact with foreigners. What kind of youth, especially one in the Brave New World, doesn't deviate from the previous generation?

"Marriages are still arranged here. Do you think you might want to date a girl first, get an idea of how you are together before you have to spend your life living with her?

"Hey man. That is haram. Islam not allow. Maybe I try to talk some woman. But I keep very secret. And I not do with the Yemen girl."

Some girl passes by in the street.
"Konichiwa! Konichiwa! I know her man. She Japanese. I love a Japanese girl. I be right back. Have more tea, it is free."

5 minutes later.

"So you got a phone number, or she hit you."

"You are crazy Man. I fuck the shit. Yes. The Japanese like Ali Aziz. She want to meet me."

"You fucked that girl, the one who just walked by us."

"I fuck the shit, man, I fucking it. Now she meet me. But we fuck."

"So, you don't even know her. When you use the word 'fuck' in sexual way, you must put a conditional word like 'will' or 'want' or 'can' in front of it. If not, this means you already had sex with her."

"Yeah, Man, I am getting you. I want fuck her. Yeah. I will fuck the Bitch. I can fuck. I am fuck."

"Not the last one."

The conversation began to lose its appeal when Mr. Smooth sent off a non-stop flurry of text messages. Presumably to all his bitches. It was time to leave, lest the owner gain consciousness and demand money for something. But Ali Aziz was too much a character to permanently dispose. We'd meet again.

A labyrinth of dead end stone streets offered the occasional goat, but no passage. Children kicking soccer balls, jubilantly asked for photographs, but had no clue where to go. Women behind stained glass looked but never spoke. Grey bearded men with faded skullcaps offered greetings. An occasional speeding motorcycle threw you from the narrow alley into a wall of ancient masonry. Eventually, the sanctuary of the GuestHouse lobby was procured.

Another young male speaking comprehensible English. I hadn't met him before. Quite a change from Ali A. He went by Hassan. A soft spoken mellowness pervaded his Yemeni James Dean stylings. The stoned gaze of his large brown eyes left him in a perpetual state of dreaminess. 19 years old and a mere 6 months in the Infidel Hotel Industry. His father was a respected language professor, who had a stern demeanor and high expectations for his son. Hassan enjoyed smoking cigarettes from the left corner of this mouth. Probably the result of stuffing his other cheek full of narcotic green leaves. He must have went shopping with Ali Aziz as his wardrobe was quite similar. Except he took the care to press his jacket, and coif his hair, into a small gelled mass. When he spoke, his words dripped out, enjoying extended syllables and a sleepy illiterate eloquence.

"Where…aaare…you from? I have not met Amerrr-ican girl yet. Are they beauuu-tee-ful?"

"Compared to Yemeni women, they are the nymphs of paradise."

"I must to meet…the Amerrr-ican girl. She must be beauuu-tee-ful."

"Do you meet a lot of women from other countries here?"

"Soooo many. I have love them aaall."

"Does that mean you had sex with these foreigners?"

A mischievous grin, and his seemingly thin groomed eyebrows raise those big brown pupils even wider. "They are aaall…so…beauuu-ti-ful. I can not have make luuuve with all. Sooo many."

"I'm the only one staying here and this place looks like its been abandoned for years. Are you telling the truth?"

"Yeesss. Before you are…come…here, sooo many. From Italia. From Francia. From Swiss. From Japan."

"So, who are your favorite. From where are the most beautiful women?"

"Italia. Number 1. (He holds finger up while regaining the smirk) Italia woman is best woman. Sooooo …very…beauuu-tee-ful. I am love."

"Aren't you worried about breaking with Islam. Isn't it bad if you talk to these women, and try to kiss them or something? It is forbidden, right?"

"I am not like this thing. If I like the woo-man, I want to talk with her."

"So you don't like the way Yemen women cover everything. You want to see a change."

"Yes, this old way. Women are so nice. I like talk with the wooo-man. She is sooo nice.
I don't want to be like this….other way."

He wouldn't even look at you sometimes, when he spoke. He'd just grin, and look to the ceiling corner where he saw a breast apparition, or something.

"Have you actually had sex with a woman, one of these women?"

"Italia. She is my luuuuuuve. She study… Arabic here. Speak verrry well. Stay here 3 month. She luve me. She come to my room (grin is at its ultimate arch now). We have make luuve many time. I am luuuuve her. So beauuu-tee-ful."

It was like he swallowed an eternal tablet of ecstasy. He would continue staring into air, smiling, and repeating his beau-ti-ful mantra.

There should be nothing abnormal about late teen males embarking on sexual misadventures. But in a culture drowning with threats of hellfire and fiery damnation for even looking at an unrelated woman, few young men take the opportunity to discover the predilections of non-muslim adolescence. It's only upon immersion into the infidel's 'western' world that an Arabian male even has a hope for non-paid liaisons.

The last call to prayer had faded into the surrounding mountains, swallowed by the swirling dust and clawing scrub bushes. People had taken to the darkened streets, which in Arabian parlance means the Men began to roam and chat. Women are not people here.
As I made my way outside to discover new friends, one had apparently already been waiting for me.

"From where, you come?"

"Lappland."

"Good country. You like the fuck."

I already had two Romeos to work with, but this kid couldn't have been older then thirteen. He sat hunched over on the edge of a stone wall with a larger boy shying away behind him.

"I like The Fuck. I own two of them. They are on sale in the souk right now."

"Fuck is bad. Haram. I am not fuck. Our Prophet tells us this not allow. How many fuck, you fuck?"

"Counting your sister, I think four, maybe five but that one's a question of definitions."

"Why you fuck? This bad. Very bad. I no fuck. You go hell."

"Ok. I'm done. I won't do it again."

The inquisitor clutched a small notepad and a pen. He resumed looking at his script while the larger character peered curiously over his shoulders.

"What are you writing?"

"I write love letter for friend. He like girl. I know what write the girl like."

Odd. Very odd. This younger then 13 looking Mohammed de Bourganac was writing love letters for his big boned eighteen year old friend.

"Make sure to comment on how much you like her mobile phone. Teenage girls really love that."

"I write no problem. I don't want Fuck Man help me."

"You know, Mohammed said it's forbidden to write notes to women unless you have their parents permission and at least one of their brother's is present."

"Not haram. I write nice note. No Fuck letter."

"Why isn't your friend writing this? And how do have such experience to write these things?"

"The girls they like. I know many girl. I write them nice thing. You are fucking man. I don't talk you no more."

"Bye."

"Wait. How you fuck? Tell me how the fuck. I want know."

Demonstrating on a nearby Eucalyptus tree, I dry humped the peeling bark while chanting, "Who's your Muslim Daddy?"

"I don't like this. I not fuck. If woman fuck, not marry, I kill her. You go hell. YOU GO HELL. I finish to write my letter of love."

The little tyrant was another example of the disturbed attitudes of young men, or any Yemeni men, toward the liberated clitoris. As I walked away in a state of placid bemusement, a familiar voice followed, albeit distantly. "Stop to fuck. You must have no fuck. BAD MAN. BAD MAN."

One tea later, and several blocks away, a frenzied Ali Aziz came running up to me.

"I meet Belgian girl today. I want to her. She have beautiful body and face. I like this. I must a have to her. You help me."

"Well, how did you meet her and what is she like?"

"I meet father. Second time in Yemen. I show him around and he bring daughter. I must a have to her. She tells me she is the Virgin. This good, yes?"

"How old is she?"

"15."

"You want to sleep with the virgin 15 year old of a client you have. Are you crazy?"

"Please, Enrico, tell me how to have a her. When I look at the body, I can not a too speak she is so delicious to eat. I want ask her to have me take her virgin. This ok, yes? I can ask to her this?"

"Are you practicing to be like an Al-Qaeda fighter so you are prepared for Paradise?"

"Why you say this. I not Al-Qaeda. I am Ali Aziz. I make the love not do the fight (laughing)."

"I think, if you want to deflower a ripe Belgian, you may want to have some experience so you don't embarrass yourself."

"Ali Aziz no virgin, man. I know the fuck. I can make the sex nice. Super Nice."

"I think you're full of shit. I'd be surprised if you've even touched the hand of a woman."

"Man. Why you make this talk. I have the sex before. I tell you."

"How many times have you made this sex?"

"One time. But good. I get Iraq woman. She have big…what you call these (points to chest)?"

"Hooters."

"Yes. She have the big hooter and the nice big butt. The Iraq woman like to fuck the Ali Aziz. I make the sex to her three times in the night. She sleep in my bed in Aden (city on Southern coast of Yemen known for easy access to prostitutes)."

"And where did you learn to have sex, or did you just figure it out as you went along."

"C'mon Man. Look at me (he points to his gangly body with a big beaming grin). This Ali Aziz. I know. I watch the video. Many video. And she like it. She tell me it very good. Of course. Now she know the Ali Aziz."

"How was this experience for you, being that you are a Muslim and are forbidden to have sex before marriage and with anyone other then your wife? Any problems?"

His entire demeanor changes, assuming the expression of a sullen boy rather then the proud fornicating Yemeni warrior. His hands slip into the safe oasis of his Jordache jean pockets. The words are slowly leaving his mouth, probably under acknowledgement of impending HellFire.

"I think maybe something wrong. I tell you after I finish each time. You know, after I…what you say…yes…ok, this thing you say…when I blow the load, I am feeling bad because I blow the load. I feel shame. Real shame. Only lie there in the bed. And she touch me. But I hit her hand. I say to leave me. But she stay. And then later, we make the sex again. I don't know what happen me. Each time finish, same thing. Very shame. I feel the shame. Why. Allah know. He know so he punish me."

"I think your natural sexual urges are conflicted with your religious upbringing. Either you choose to accept your sex drive and torment the Iraqi refugees, or find somebody to marry this week."

"What? I am not knowing what wrong. In morning, I leave and she ask the mobile number. I say to her, 'Bitch', and then I make slap to her (demonstrates slap and chuckles). I go from Hotel. And she follow and ask why I not like her. But I am not listen and leave the city."

The next day, upon exiting the Hamam, a fine Turkish relic of steam rooms and physically taxing massages that only the ruthless Ottomans could endure, brought me a giddy Hassan in yet another finely pressed pinstriped polyester blazer and knee-hole ripped jeans. Despite a cool evening breeze, his pompadour held stiff. Some generic cigarette hung limply from the left corner of his mouth. "I have new luuuve. I see her too-day in souk."

"But what about the Italian. She is your love. How many loves do you think you can handle?"

"Yes. Yes. Italia. She is my true luuuve. But now she is not here. I not know where this woman she come from. I think that she is from the Denmarka but maybe she is the Sweden. I must to meeeet her. You have to see my new luuuve. She is the most of pretty."

"You really like the foreign girls. Don't you ever want to have a love from Yemen. There are probably a lot of cute girls under there."

"Pssst. No from here. You can not have talk with the girl from here. I not like this. Now I have for me from Ethiopia. She is so beauuu-tee-ful. So so so beauuu-tee-ful. But I am not luuve her. I am not. I like the girl she come from Europe or America. So much I like."

Two goats eyed us suspiciously, pondering whether they should inform the nearest Imam of this local sinner. I eyed them lustfully. They ran away.

"How do you deal with all the guilt from Islam, and knowing that you can not really meet these women?"

"I am not like it. I must always make the meet in see-cret place. I not to tell my father or any people. It is problem. I don't like. And the woo-man, she is not free here. The police they stop me if they see I have a woman next me that not my wife. Always they do this when late in the night. They make problem. The girl here have to wear all the clothing and on the face. I not like. The Europe girl. She can talk. She talk with me. Soooo many. They are beauuu-tee-ful. I want to move there. I can study there. My father help me to Sweden. I hope for this."

"Careful, Swedish girls are very conservative. I don't think they like men. Unless they are lying naked on a streamlined teak couch with a bucket of herring by their side."

"Yes. Soooo many beauuu-tee-ful from Sweden. I will go to see."

He continued on a drunken wanderlust, proclaiming his love for some mysterious white girl he briefly chanced upon in the market, over and over until I had to excuse myself to maintain sanity.

Steps from the quiet sanctuary of my abandoned guesthouse, I heard a familiar voice. It was too dark in the streetlightless corridor to find the face, but the angry high pitched voice was unmistakable. "Why you fuck? Why you do the fuck. Haram. You can not the fuck."

"I thought your mother locked you up. Shouldn't you be writing love letters for somebody? Or maybe you should simply try fucking something. Just for fun. Go ahead. Have a fuck."

Screaming, "I NO FUCK. NO FUCK. WHY YOU FUCK. Islam you can not. Do you want be muslim. I like you to be muslim."

"I'll think about it and let you know tomorrow."

"Tell me how the fuck. How it is the fuck. You show me."

"Do you say this stuff just to set me up so you can start yelling again. Look, just stick your thing, from between your legs, the thing you make peepee with. Go buy a hot shwarma sandwich. Leave it for 10 minutes and then stick your thing in it. Move it back and forth. This will give you good practice to make fuck. Ok."

"Why you tell me buy shwarma. I am not eating shwarma. You fuck man. YOU FUCK. Be muslim."

The mid-morning egg sandwich saw the return of the Jordache King, Ali Aziz the First.
Seconds later, the remaining sandwich disappeared into the Emperor's mouth. In these parts, food is considered communal, especially amongst friends. Asking for bites and slices is like asking to see a local woman's hair. His mouth still chomping up the hard-boiled egg was unable to restrain the excitement. "I have meet a girl. New girl. She from Japan. I think she is same girl I tell you other day."

"What happened to your Belgian virgin?"

"Yeah, man, she is nice. Really, man, she is a love. I am I want to ask her to make sex but she is leave today. I have email to her. I meet different girl in work. She 25 and I think she have sex with 7 men before. Whore. I not like the whore. I tell her to leave the store. But, hey, man, you want hear about Japan girl. She nice. Very nice. I meet many before from Japan. I am speak in Japan too."

"You don't speak Japanese. Tell me something."

'Konichiwa. Domo arregoto. Ichiwani."

"That's great. You can say 'hello' to a Japanese girl. Then, start kissing her. When you are finished, say 'thank you very much' and still have one word left over if she wants to have a conversation."

"I want you help to me. I like to her. She pretty girl. We meet for lunch today. What to do. How I can kiss her? My stomach not good."

"Ah. You're nervous. This may be your first kiss. Just grab her head, and shove your tongue in there. Either she'll slap you or let you finish."

"Really. This is how to make the kiss. I follow you. Help to me. I think she love me."

"You're going to have to wait until night time. Go some place private, maybe a rooftop or something. Lean in and gently kiss her, very softly and not long. And don't put your tongue in there. And then you have to wait and see what she does."

"Ok. I will try. I want to give the tongue. Maybe I can a little. I see in video. The woman like the tongue."

"Fine. Do what you want. Maybe wet your finger, then stick it in her ear and turn it around. Japanese girls like this."

"Ok. Thank you. I catch your ass later."

The following day. Progress report. Over heavily sweetened tea with a squirt of canned milk.

"I take what you tell to me. Last night we go on the roof of one hotel. She is talking me. Then she stops. I looking to her. I put my hand like this (under the chin) and give her kiss. My tongue. It touch to her. Really, man. I can to believe it. I am make the kiss. But she stop me. She say no. I touch her again, like this (same under the chin spot). I say to her, 'Look into my eyes. You have the key to my heart and you can open it anytime (he mimics door opening a door with key).' She make smile. I know she like me. But I am not kiss her again. I think if she have the key it is ok. I wait. She will open it."

"Can I use this key to open my door, cause my key isn't working too well."

"Hey, Man, this is not a key like that. It is key for the woman. The woman like to have the key. Ali Aziz is not give the key to anybody. But for the Japan, I am giving."

"Good luck in your pursuit. Don't forget to tell her that you want to eat her like a roll of sushi and soak her with your soy sauce."

Same café. Same time. Same beverage. New story.

"Why you give me this look, Man, it is me, your main friend, Ali Aziz. Don't you want hear about the Japan?"

"I'm looking at that goat. He looks familiar. Like I've seen him before. And he keeps checking me out."

"The white people feed to them. Maybe he want food. I am telling you now, ok. I tell you. I meet her the night last. We go to roof. I make the kiss. Really, man, I am doing the kiss, but she turn from me. She not want. Then her phone ring. She have boyfriend. He call from Japan but she make him on the speakerphone. He is speak to her in English. He tells her that he love her and miss to her and then she put phone to ear. When she finish she explain that she has a love but I tell her not to matter me. I bring her to new roof. I make for kiss again, but she move her head (he re-enacts timid Japanese girl slowly turning head from young predatory muslim boy). Now I am tell her that she can use the key I gave her to my heart. But she is not using. I don't know to why. Really, Man, the Japan girl is for me. I like very much. I bring her to one more roof. But she not to kiss to me. I am thinking that maybe I can have the tongue but she must be to think about the boyfriend. I can have to her. Ali Aziz can be better then a Japan man. She is having my key."

"I think you're finished. You may want to get back in touch with the Virgin."

"Ali Aziz will make to work."

The following evening. Stone steps to a shuttered storefront play host for our new café. Men are passing throughout the night oblivious to our blasphemous speak. No goats are in sight. The faint sounds of the Arabic oud are crackling through a far-off radio. The Rising Sun Seducer is wide eyed and smiling as usual. His faded blue t-shirt is some Chinese replica of the American surfer style, a hallucinogenic font surreptitiously proclaims, "WaveRider Alls the Way."

"She just leave me. I am sure I am love, man. I think I take me to Japan or she will to break the heart. Tonight is good but problem. I need to win her. She is for me."

"What did you do during the day with her?"

"First, I am only sending her the phone message (texting). I not want to see her to early, only her to read my words."
He passes over the phone, a beat-up Nokia with a cracked screen probably found amongst the Tsunami rubble and shipped to Yemen as Public Aid.

There are two messages. The first displays, "The words begin with ABC. The number begin with 123. The music begin with Do-Re-Mi. And the love begins with you and me."

An hour and twenty minutes later, the following message alerted the coy Japanese girl to her pursuer's conviction: "I waited 9 months to see the world. 1 year to walk. 2 years to talk. 3 years to study. But really I waited to many years to find a friend like you."

"Did these things come with your phone when you bought it?"

"Hey, man. What you speak? You are crazy. I write these. They are for my love. I make for her."

"You are very talented. I know a local 13 year old who could use your help writing letters. Maybe you can make a living writing love notes for Yemeni boys. Just don't forget the website you found that crap on. So, what happened later?"

"We go to place for shisha. But nobody is there. Only her and me. I make to kiss her but she turn head away. Ali Aziz find a new way to make her. I sit on her. Like this. (He straddles my legs informing me of the extra onions his mother must have put in his dinner). I pull the shirt down (as he continues to demonstrate) and catch the hooter (demonstration persisted). She slap my hand. But I stay. (he remains perched on my lap). I am liking her very much now. Then a something happen. Really, shit, man, I don't know what to happen." He stands up and moves back on the stairs so that he is standing above me. His arm salutes stiffly into the air, in a Hitler like fashion. "What is this? What you call this, this happen?"

"You're an Aryan. You probably hate Jews already so I can see where you might do that. Or maybe you want to fly."

"No. Look." He points to his groin. "My dick have this."

"Your dick hates Jews."

"What you call when my dick make like this?"

"Boner."

"Yes. Yes. I have a this."

You must repeat it or you'll forget. It's your new vocabulary word for the day.

"Yes. Ok. I have a bone. My bone is very hard. I not know what do. So I am touching to her and trying to make kiss but she push me. Then the bone make cough."
"I don't understand."

He starts spitting on to the ground. "It do this. A spit, you say, right, Spit. Yes. My bone is spit. I make spit right here (pointing to crotch area of Jordache shame)."

"Jesus. You came in your pants while you sat on top of this poor, shy, frightened Japanese tourist. You're a freak."

"I not came. I am already there. I don't know what I to do. Really, man. I fucking shame. I feel embarrass. It is first time I make this."

"What about your Iraqi bitch that you spent the night with?"

He seems confused, either caught in a lie or making some differentiation between hooker sex and Japanese tourist lap dance rape.

"No this is not that. She is not the whore. She is my love. And she push to me and stand up. Then she say me, 'Are you finished?"

"Sounds like she is a pretty accommodating girl."

"I will find again tomorrow. She leave me but I can not to forget her. Now we have share this special moment. I must have bone again."

The next afternoon, I decide to pay a visit to Hassan. He resumes his typical afternoon post in the opiumQat den nestled behind the front desk of the guesthouse. He is sitting alone, hair in ready-to-be-photographed position. His eyes are staring dreamily at the peeling plastered walls.

"Yo. Hassan. How's life?"

"It is sooo good. I see again my Luuuuve. I see her on the street. She have a friend. A Yemen girl. I am watching her. Her hair is soooo looooovely. Her eyes are beauuu-tee-ful. She is my luuuuve. I want soooo much to meet her. But she keeps the walking with friend."

"You should talk to Ali Aziz. He is really good at meeting women and he can tell you many wonderful things to say to her."

"He is soooo stuu-pid. I not let him know of my luuuve. Inshallah, I will meet her one day and she can know how it is that I love her."

"Good luck."

Our meetings are never arranged. Being watchless and phoneless makes exact time seem positively sci-fi. By the fate of Allah and sophomoric sensibility, the labyrinth alleys of the old city always seem to bring us together. We pass beneath a row of tilting stone and brick apartments, their stained glass slightly illuminated by the nearby streetlight. It’s a bit later then our normal rendezvous' and foot traffic is minimal. A goat turns out to be a shadow of three abandoned boxes, flaps raised high. Mr. Aziz is all smiles. His beakish nose takes turns hiding in the swaying streetlight.

"Today is a day. I must to tell you about the Japan girl. I think she is really like to me but I not understand everything."

"I'm listening."

"I take her for a dinner. It is very nice. She is lovely to watch to eat. I then go to different café. It is nobody there. I tell her she is not using the key I give her. But I want her to use the key. I tell her that my heart is only for her. Then I say to her, 'I love you.' Really, I am say this. I ask to her, "Don't you love me?" She look to me and say that she likes me. She say I am nice but she have boyfriend. Then she start to talk sexy with me. Really. She say she not love to me but then she ask me if I ever touch to the dick. What you say..Yes..Ok, I say it..monkeyspank. I tell her that I can not monkeyspank because Islam forbid it. But Enrico, you know it is only lie, right. But I not tell her. I say life is hard for me. I am not allow to touch. So she take my finger and begin to move her hand up and down. I tell her I would like. Then she ask to me if I have somebody suck on the dick. I tell her it is not so. But I bring out the dick and she tells me to stop. She does not like. And then, she tells to me that her boyfriend makes suck on her. Really, Man. Fuck shit. She tells me she like to this. I not understand why a man to do this, but I put my face in the pusee and she hit my head. She not let to me. Main man Enrico, what I can do. She make crazy."

"Look. Ali, we're friends now, so I'm going to be honest with you. You're love is what we like to call a 'cocktease.' And really, she is simply a lonely female tourist in a culture not used to talking with women. She wants to spend time with a local guy so she can be part of the culture. And she doesn't want to upset you because then she will have no one to spend her nights with. So she lets you do these things. She doesn't love you. I'm sorry."

"But maybe she do. You not know how she look to me. She will use the key. I tell you now."

'Fine. If you want to gain her affection, you're only choice is to ignore her. One of two things will happen. She will either not get in touch with you and you'll never see her again, meaning she feels you got the idea and she is free to leave, OR, she will call you after a day and ask why you are not calling her. If this happens, make sure you make her wait another day because you are busy. Then when you see her again. Be nice but don't try to touch her and tell her you love her. Maybe something will happen."

"Ok, really, man, this is the fucking good advice. You are my main man. I like you. I will try to what you say."

It was late in the afternoon, the following day. The shops were beginning to re-open from their Qat and large lunch siestas. Somewhere in the area, two voices were shouting in broken English. In a land of Arabic, English seems to gravitate unimpeded. It took some time, but I finally got to the source. I couldn't believe it. Ali Aziz and the young heckler were going at it, verbally. I stayed behind a parked taxi so the show could continue free of commercial interruption.

"If you fuck the Europe girl you must make special talk like this and not be hard like we do the Yemen woman."

"How to fuck. Show me the fuck. I wait for to learn."

"You are the boy. I can not show you. If you wait, you will be to learn."

"Fuck to you. You are fucking man. I no want to fuck. It is bad. You are go to hell."

"You must to practice the speak to English. If you speak more better, then you speak to the woman, and she will like you. You listen me, ok."

"I am speak English. I know the fuck speak. I want fuck. Why you no help me."

"When you are more old, you learn. Keep speak the English. Look for the Europe people. The white people can help to you. Speak them. Then you can speak the woman. Then she will love to you. And you have the fuck."

"I am not fucking. You are bad. Haram. You get problem with Allah. No fucking woman. You marry. Fuck to you. Fuck to you."

"Hey man, why you say this me. I am here to speak the English with you. Fuck you, man. You shit. Fuck to your shit. You are fucking shit. Fuckman."

Weird. What are the odds of overhearing that conversation. It was direct insight into the positive influence a western media education have over the youth. Things would only improve in the modernizing Yemen.

Two days elapsed. Other new friends were met. All of whom had children and shaven libidos. I didn't know where or when, but Allah has his ways, so I trusted that around some corner, my favorite Romantic would appear jubilant as always. An unveiled woman with a rainbow headscarf had recently passed followed by two young leering boys. A sign. He was near. Over there. His unmistakable countenance clearly stood out among the multitude of chattering tea drinkers, perched on a flattened stone space above a sunken roadway that served as a river during the rainy season. He sat alone, typing into his love phone. He was dressed for success as he substituted the Jeans for a clean pair of beige pressed slacks and the worn leather sandals for a pair of dress shoes. The pinstriped blazer still concealed a tight fitting cheap Chinese t-shirt. I came up behind him, as the turbans turned to see what the Infidel was up to.

In a womanly voice, I whispered behind his ear while grabbing cover over his eyes, "You like fuck me, I wait you here."

He drops the phone of irrefutable romance. The small wooden chair falls over and he rises. "Fuck man. What you doing. You want kill Ali Aziz. Don't make that to me. I think you are a love of mine. Have seat. I am typing to the Japan now. She is at airport."

"I'm ready."

"I listen to you man, Really, I do. I not call her after we meet. And she call me five times. But I no get the phone. Then we speak. She tell me it is her last day. She want to see me. I tell her I will try. We meet at her hotel and I don't make to kiss her on the face or touch or anything. I only I listen with her and we make walk in the city. One time she make to touch my hand, but I move it. That's right. I say no to fuck her. You no fuck me. I no fuck you. You don't want to do me the suck. I don't fucked you."

"You said that."

"No. I want to say but only I tell her that 'You are a woman of your own.' Then I no talk about her but only about her trip and about my country. She tell me she want me to go with taxi and go airport with her. I say maybe. I have many thing to do. But she keep to asking me. I finally say to her that I will be to my honor to take her." His ceaseless smile has somehow found room to grow. The teeth are flashing triumph. "Then in the cab she put her hand here. What you say this..no, not dick, I am knowing the dick. Why Ali Aziz ask what is the dick. I always talk the dick. What is this...ok, she put on interer cuadricep. She is putting her hand here (groin area sometimes confused with the interior quadriceps). I try to not make the dick to grow. But it want to grow. I say to me, to Ali Aziz, 'please not make spit on me.' And then she kiss me. Really man. She make to kiss me. I am counting. One. Two. Three. I count to ten. She still kiss to me. Maybe it is 15. Whoa. Really, Man. Fuckshit. It work. She want the Ali Aziz. You are the main man. Fucking man, you are my brother, man. The advice is working. So I say her, 'You have used the key to my heart that I give you. My heart is now in your heart.' I am now looking to her in the her eyes. She have the beautiful eyes. I hold her hand, and I say her, 'When you are home, you only share the love with the boyfriend and your love here in Yemen. There are no more loves. Me and a you, and a him.' She puts her head down and make look to me. She understand."

"You're a real Cassanova. I am proud of you on this day. I will buy your tea for you."

"There is more. We get to airport. And they no want let me in. I tell them I am Ali Aziz but no one believe. I tell police she not speak English and I speak the Japan speak. She have difficult time and I must to be with her or she can not get the plane. They let me to go with her to place where you get on the plane. We wait together. But now we not say much. She go to get the plane, but I take her hand and not let her to go. I look her in the eye. I speak to her only these word, 'I am very sad this day cause I lost my heart.' Then I make to leave and say no more. I turn back one time to see her and I see she is having water on face, what you say…yes, she make tear. She cry. I make her to cry." He is giggling now. "I am sending her the message on phone but she not write back. I think she is leave."

"So, you are in love. It must be really special for you, having your first love."

"Yes, really, man, she is my love. I will talk her again and she tell me that she come visit to me again the next year. I wait here for her."

"Why are you leaving me? Don't you want to hang out and watch all these hot men come in and out of the café?'

"I sorry but I have to go. There is the one American girl that call me. She live here to study Arabic and she always making call to me. She call me many time, man. Really. She like to fucken call. You think she wants fuck. I go talk her. We meet now for a dinner. (smile reaching to bottom of the ear) There a more keys to my heart."