After spending a lovely fun-filled year in China — earning the pennies and searching for, but not finding, temporary love between sheets — I decided big money and large dicks in a Middle Eastern land was where I needed to go.
I had no idea Oman even existed until an unexpected job offer came up via an English teaching website. After all the formalities, and a month-long party in London, I was on my way to the Sultanate. By now I had discovered that it was an Islamic monarchy at the southeast tip of the Arabian Peninsular.
The desert experience begins
My desert experience was beginning. My longing to know Arab culture was about to begin. Somewhere, deep inside me, I wanted to prove western media wrong, and see for myself that my Arab brothers and sisters were not all terrorists. Little did I realize, at first, that my Arab brothers all wanted to be deep inside me.
I spent the first two years being an obedient, upstanding citizen. I received lots of promotions at work and was becoming a pillar in the community. I was the face of the kind, respectful westerner.
My focus was on representing my nation well and sharing my culture with the locals in a non-sexual, non-hedonistic way. This meant no alcohol — even though it was available once I knew where to look. No sex — but it was offered everywhere, once I opened my eyes. And no ganga — but it was found, and in troves.
I decided ‘play time’ would only happen during vacations, outside the country. On the face of it, Oman is a deeply conservative place. Last year, for example, the Sultanate’s leading newspaper The Week was suspended after running an article deemed to be “sympathetic” towards homosexuality. Yes, man love is illegal, and carries a penalty of up to three years locked in a prison with hundreds of men. Hopefully, all hardened criminals.
Trips to Lebanon and Kuwait cured my horniness throughout the year, but it seemed every trip outside the Sultanate brought back an urge to awaken the beast within.
At first I tried my signature modus operandi. Nothing was bearing fruit. I even tried to get into the psyche of the Arab man in hopes that he would soon be inside me. Zilch, nada, ha-las! Finally, I had some friends visiting from abroad, and one of them told me, in the clearest of terms, “to get that dick!” I was ready to pounce. Sohar, a city on the Arabian Gulf, was the site of my first conquest, but many more would follow throughout Arabia.
No relaxation equals no entry
Prior to going to the bar (yes, a bar. Can you believe it? I had no idea that the alcohol was right under my nose). Well, before we went I decided to stop at a pharmacy to pick up a few tools for the night. I had been warned that local men didn’t like condoms and that lots of lube would be needed.
As much as I wanted to have this experience, I was not looking forward to an impatient, in a rush, Omani who was only interested in getting his rocks off. The false sense of love can be had in the oddest of situations, and it’s that feeling that relaxes the average guy like me. No relaxation equals no entry, which in turn equals no fun by either party involved.
After my purchase I exchanged glances with an Omani. He was very handsome and very nice. I thought nothing of it at first, but then it clicked. He was interested. It was all under the disguise of becoming friends for him to practice his English and for me to learn Arabic. His name was Abdullah – easy to remember, it’s the most common name in Oman – and we exchanged numbers. Before we parted, he said: “Call me if you need… anything.”
My western friends, who had been watching from the car with the windows rolled down, greeted me with cheers and smiles. Much excitement and encouragement followed. I still was not convinced.
We arrived at the bar, ordered some beers and one of my friends grabbed my phone. When it was returned to me I noticed he had messaged the guy I’d just met at the pharmacy. An arrangement had been made for me to meet him outside in 10 minutes. I was shocked, scared but excited. What the hell, I told myself. I’m just gonna go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?
Holy shit. Did I just do that?
I downed my beer, had a shot of whisky and proceeded to my arranged meeting. Once outside, I saw a car waiting in the shadows of the parking lot. I hopped in. “Hi Abdullah,” I said. There was a cute smile on his face and a look that said, “I’m ready if you are”.
I soon found myself face down in gorilla salad. The gates of heaven and ecstasy had opened. All sorts of thoughts were penetrating my head while a different head was attempting to penetrate me. I’ll leave the details for another time — but in short, I had shed my good-boy facade and allowed my naturally sexual aura to live again.
Afterwards, we chatted and Abdullah asked for my number. This struck me as odd, I’d given it to him back at the pharmacy… but hey, I was happy to ensure he had it stored in his phone.
He dropped me back at the bar and we said goodbye. As I was walking away, I heard a car’s horn and a guy calling my name through the open window. “What happened?” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to come out and meet me.”
What? He showed me his phone with the text that my friend had sent earlier: “Hey Abdullah, let’s meet outside in 10 minutes…”
Then the penny fell. Holy shit, did I just do that? I sure did. But I was drunk, those damn taxis all look alike and their drivers pretty much fit the same profile…
If you’re wondering what happened next, let’s just say there were at least two very happy Abdullahs in Oman that night.