I have never felt any particular need for friends. I like helping people, makes me feel useful, and I prefer that people contact me only when there’s something I can help them with. Otherwise it’s just all talk, and I don’t like useless talking.
Speaking gives me a headache.
At this point in my life however, things were different. I had been living in London for over a year, and I knew practically nobody. This shouldn’t have bothered me, but I was unemployed, and had recently moved into a swanky, £1500 a month flat with my wife.
Being broke and scared in a foreign country improves the appeal of having a friend, slightly.
One day I was returning from an interview. It had gone well, but I knew I wouldn’t get the job. After walking an hour in the bitter cold, I got into the lift to get to my floor.
“Yeah can’t complain, how are you?”
“ Not bad, you look tired.”
“Had an interview in the morning.”
“Got the job?”
“Good luck mate, see you around.”
A few days went by, and I finally got a job. Returning home one evening from work, I got into the lift again.
“Ah, how are things now, got that job?”
“Not that one, but something else.”
“Awesome, I’m just back from Manchester, or we’d have celebrated in my flat.”
“No worries at all.”
“Take my number, and come down tomorrow evening, I’m in door 34”
“Alright, I’m 69, see you tomorrow.”
I went down the next evening and knocked on the door.
He let me in and took me to the kitchen. There was an object sitting by the hob, it was like a small metal lamp with some intricate carvings, and scented smoke coming out the top. He picked it up and put it inside his t-shirt, then he asked me if I wanted to try.
I said “Why not”, and he lifted my sweater and put it in there. He then lifted the warmer I was wearing underneath, and then the vest beneath that, and put it right next to my belly. It was fragrant, but he saw that I was unimpressed.
Taking it out, he pinched my tummy and said I’d got some fat.
He then asked if I wanted some coffee, and I said “Why not”. He pulled out an expensive looking machine, placed a cup underneath it, and asked me what flavor I preferred. I told him I didn’t know there were different flavors of coffee, so he showed me a box full of them. I picked a random one, and the machine made some noises.
“Looks like you spend a lot of money on your coffee.”
“Yes I like it just perfect, but I’m not that rich. Just kidding, I’m actually very rich.”
By this time I had started to realize just how rich he was. The reason he was sitting around in a t-shirt, and I had 3 layers on, was because his house was hot like a car that’s been left too long in the Sun. Not only did he have all the radiators in the house on full blast, I noticed something else ridiculous.
He had all the electric heaters on his hob turned on, to full.
People who’ve used electric hobs would know how hot those things can get, and they’ll also know how much electricity they can eat. For others using gas stoves, picture putting your oven on full flame, and keeping the door open, to heat your house.
We took our coffee cups to the couch in the drawing room. He told me he was from Qatar, and was doing his bachelors in the UK. And that he had a girlfriend from Madrid who had gone home for a few days.
The back of the couch led to a big glass wall that opened up on the road. We watched the Sun setting through it. I told him about my job, and how I ended up here with my wife.
As soon as coffee was done, he got up and pulled the curtains on the big glass wall.
We talked a bit more, and then it began.
“I’ve heard Indians give very good massages.”
“You have? I have never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ve been going hard in the gym the last few days, and it’s getting a bit painful.”
He then proceeded to take off his t-shirt, and showed me his biceps. On noticing that I was unimpressed, he asked me to show mine.
I awkwardly pulled back my 3 layers of sweaty clothing, and flexed the best I could, getting more confused and uncomfortable, but not sure why.
“You know what, I’ll teach you how to give a massage.”
Before I could say anything, the dude was lying on the wood floor, face down, pointing with his right hand to his upper back.
I got up, and weirdly pressed on his back with my thumbs. The noises he made did not match the effort I was putting in.
“You lie down, I’ll show you how to get it done.”
“Massages do nothing for me.”
“Try it once, I’m very good.”
So I lied down, and he started pushing down my back. I felt little more than pain and discomfort, maybe some annoyance.
“Take off these layers man, I’m not able to do it properly.”
“Don’t worry about it, this isn’t my thing anyway.”
So he took off my sweater, the warmer, and the vest, and replayed his moves. It felt no different.
“Your jeans are too tight, why don’t you loosen them up.”
“No, no, it’s alright I think we are done here.”
“Give me one minute and then you can do what you like.”
And there I was, in the house of a guy I didn’t know, lying on the fucking floor, in my boxers.
It’s important to understand that the things I described above happened in a matter of seconds, the time it took me to walk in the door and then be half-naked was less than 5 minutes, or at least it felt that way.
Only now did I start to realize that something was wrong.
“This is uncomfortable.”
“I’m almost done here.”
As he said this, he started massaging my thighs, and moved up to my stomach, slowly starting to maneuver inside my boxers.
On his last stroke, his hand brushed up my dick, which by this time must’ve felt the size of a roasted peanut. He stopped abruptly, sat up, and told me he was done.
I got up, slowly dragged on my jeans, and then the layers on top, while he watched. We sat down on the couch again in uncomfortable silence.
At this point it’s interesting to know that one of my favorite fantasies is imagining that some girl would fall in love with me, and then I’d have to politely tell her that I love my wife, and although she is very attractive, we can’t be anything more than friends. She is bitterly disappointed, and I walk into the sunset a hero, hand in hand with my wife.
Motherfucker, where the hell was all that well-practiced dialogue when you were being slowly stripped in a comfortably warm room of a rich foreign douche?
“I’m sorry if that was uncomfortable for you.”
“It certainly was.”
“In Qatar, it’s quite common for people to give each other massages.”
“Is that so.”
“You were too stiff, you weren’t relaxed, which made me feel uncomfortable.”
“Is it common for people in Qatar to find themselves naked on the floor of a guy’s house 5 minutes after they meet for the first time?”
He didn’t answer, but started talking about how Qataris kiss each other on the cheek as a form of greeting. I told him that Indians fold their hands and stay the fuck out of each other’s personal space.
“You aren’t going to tell your wife about this, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Because it’s funny, and weird.”
“You shouldn’t tell your wife.”
“This is something between us, I don’t know what she’ll think of me.”
“Please don’t tell her, I am serious.”
His face had turned pink, and he looked on the verge of tears. I said sure, I’ll not tell her, and then the conversation moved onto the future. He said he’ll message me when his girlfriend came back, and we’ll go out for some coffee. I agreed, and left.
I did not tell my wife.
This encounter happened around the same time when Weinstein and #MeToo were blowing up on the internet. I sat up late that night thinking about what the hell I had been through.
There were some immediate positives I saw in this situation. For the first time in my life I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t interested in men, sexually. There’s very little doubt inside your head about these things in any case, but it was nice to know it with 100% certainty.
If I was any less turned-on by his hands on my body, my penis would’ve shot out like a bullet through my lower back, clean through the spine.
I also realized that it felt nice that someone wanted me, even if it was a hairy, bullying little molester, which I guess is a strange thing to be happy about.
Most importantly, it was nice to know that I was very comfortable in my body. It’s hard to get that nowadays, you always feel inadequate in one way or another, thanks to the advertisement industry. Hair, skin, fat, something is always missing, too much of, or not the right color. I felt no shame when he looked at me, as I undressed or dressed, that’s pretty awesome.
The negatives were a bit more numerous.
The thing I felt the worst about, was the fact that I let this happen. It’s a little absurd to blame yourself in this situation, but I can’t deny that I could’ve just walked away whenever I wanted to, pulled up my pants and waddled away like a penguin. The problem was that it all happened so quick that I was sort of sleeping through to the end, at which point my shriveled up almond cock saved the day.
I felt that I was too nice, I should’ve told him to fuck off when he told me to take off my sweater, or at least the pants, or I should’ve said something to make it stop. I guess I was trying to avoid a confrontation, which wouldn’t really have happened now that I think about it. But you know, hindsight and all that shit.
While the #MeToo stories were coming out, from time to time someone would comment that it’s the victim’s fault, they were responsible for starting it, they were responsible for not stopping it, the clothes, the drinking and so on. It would obviously be stupid to compare my experience with them, but I did understand a little bit about why the victims were not to blame.
I didn’t even know the fucking guy, he had no power over me whatsoever. I wanted nothing from him, I had no reason to allow him to do anything, I was under complete control of all my senses, and yet here you are now, reading this story.
A few weeks after this encounter, I was at a club. I don’t know how to dance, and I don’t drink, so I was just wandering around like a feral cat. By the bar I saw a girl waving her arms in the air like she was at a concert. She was obviously drunk, because she was facing a wall. A dude was slowly dancing near her, your average British-Pakistani, his head barely made it to her shoulders. As I watched, the guy slipped his left hand under her skirt, between her legs. She kept on dancing. I don’t know how her night went, but my guess is that she felt, for the lack of a better word, dirty, in the morning.
Did I feel dirty? Not really. I felt annoyed about not being able to control what happened to me, but other than that I actually felt more positive about myself.
I never spoke to him again, and never saw his face. I stopped taking the lift altogether, and always used the stairs, which helped burn away the fat he’d pinched. I was uncomfortable confronting him, because I thought there were only 2 possibilities:
- Either he knew he was gay/bisexual, and he tried to force me into it
- Or he didn’t know he was gay/bisexual, and he was exploring it all
In either case, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. There were enough fires I needed to put out in my own life.
The entire reason I’d even gone to his house was because I had temporarily felt this strange urge that a friend would be nice. That urge landed me into the most awkward situation I’ve ever been in.
It was time to get rid of this stupidity, and enjoy some video games, single player mode.