The uproar surrounding Rami Malek on Egyptian social media truly shows how much of a regressed society we are. I just saw a video of a woman saying "He isn't one of us; we do not know him anymore" in response to his 8 minute standing ovation for "The Man I Love" film. A huge sum if not all creators are condemning his "acting choices", and that we "let it pass" last time with his role in "Bohemian Rhapsody" as Freddie Mercury. Which then he won AN OSCAR FOR. Only then did society start to come up with excuses why we should still support him even though he's playing "an abomination". But apparently this time it's different. Apparently it's wrong for him to be proud of his acting and the film he made. Apparently, he's a disgrace now.
People are out there calling him a "fag*t" in the comments all over tiktok and Instagram for showing a couple of tears for HIS OWN FILM. Pointing out that its a now problem everytime he's interviewed he mentions he's from "Al Menia", and that he's a proud son of Egyptian immigrants. All because now he must be "one of the rainbow people", "the colored people".
And so what if he was?
Wake the fuck up. LGBT people have always existed in Egypt. We've always been there and always will be there. Statistically 1 in 10 people are part of the LGBT community. And that's only for the openly identifying group. Did you forget about the Mashrou Leila situation? Did you forget about Sara Hegazy? The woman who raised the Gay flag a few years ago in a concert for an OPENLY LGBT supporting Labanese band that was allowed to perform in the first place in Cairo? Do you remember how she was tortured in jail for 3 months, how she killed herself even after she escaped to Canada?
Did you forget about Queen Boat? How the Western society viewed us after that?
The Egyptian society will always be looked down on for how backwards we view everything. We love looking at the empty half of the cup. We put the poison in honey, or "بنحط السم فالعسل",as they say.
Be proud of an Egyptian succeeding, be proud of Rami Malek, who will always have the blood of our country in his veins. He is a true son of Egypt. He has made made me, and everyone right enough in the head to see how much of a non issue this is, proud.
Like Laugher, the king of emotion, death says hello like a Jack in the box, loud and clear.
But sometimes, death is soft. Calm. A melody. A lover.
"Yes," he whispers, and his bright eyes are focused on you. His face looks soft in the light of the bed stand lamp. Warm and caring.
An hour ago he was just a new colleague, who had offered you a ride home. Small talk in the car, he all witty and charming, his hand shy by the goodbye shake at the door. A last glance, a wide and honest smile of him, and you couldn't resist.
"Webb.. Do - do you want a coffee before heading home?", you have asked him.
You are wondering now if this was actually your death sentence, if you yourself had spoken it with your invitation.
Death comes as a surprise. His hand at your throat had held you hard, until you fainted.
Webb sits now at the edge of the bed, smiling boyish, innocently, while using strands of your long hair for his violin bow.
You are fixed at your bed and realize that you are wearing only your underwear. He must have stripped your clothes off. The handkerchief, he had though a good gag, is loose enough that you can push it out of your mouth with your tongue.
"It did sound better if I string it myself.", he whispers to himself. You decide to react and to bargain. If not for your life then at least for a quick death. Lowly you start to speak, not to frighten him.
"Yes. One can hear the difference. Your bow has the most beautiful tone.", you tell him in hope it calms him down. He stiffs up, holds still and seems to think about your words before he turns with a boyish smile on his face.
"Thank you. I take pride in my work."
You nod, holding eye contact. "Can I be proud that you use my hair? For a rehearsal? A special event?", you whisper, holding his glance.
Suddenly timid he draws his eyes from you, looking down at the bow. He shakes his head.
"Webb... Will you at least play for me?"
He didn't answer and jumps up, making you fear he would push the gag back in your mouth. Thankfully he didn't do it.
Webb walks out of your bedroom, rumbles along the corridors. Eventually you can hear water running.
A moment it is silent in the house and then... the most beautiful tune floats through the air.
You lay still, only listening. Listening to a melody you have never heard before. A bouquet of emotions.
Adoration and fear.
Playfulness and punishment.
Lust and need. Need!
It is screaming from the violin. An outcry of pain.
You find yourself crying. Crying by the tune of Porter's play. Crying, because you understand now why there is water running.
It was all over the news after all.
The music breaks, as if Webb's bow is broken. You understand your hair could not handle his tune any more.
"Webb!", you call him.
Hesitating he steps back in the bedroom, with a wondering expression. You are sure, none of the others had called him in. You dare not to cry, but to beckon him to you.
No crying, no begging, it would not help. You understand that now. There is only one thing you can ask for. A last wish.
"A last wish?", he repeats stunned.
"Yes. Yes, Webb." You swallow the 'please', down. You will not beg. "If you demand my dead for your sake, then I am allowed to demand the little dead from you. That is just fair."
You are nearly amused as you watch him blush. He turns away from you, to his violin case. Slowly he puts instrument and bow inside the case, closing it careful. He didn't look at you but by the way he stands, you are recognizing he is in deep thoughts. Like a sleepwalker he walks out of the room. The running water stops.
You wait. Watching the door.
Of course, you know, even when he fulfils your last wish, it will be the last. There is no escape. He is a man with a very special, very sick mission he would never finish. Ever. You understand that. You even except that.
Eventually you hear him. The bedroom door opened, and he is already half stripped. The suit jacket, the shirt, the tie are gone.
You are looking from his bare chest to his face. His expression had changed. A man with a mission, still, but with a new one.
He looks at you lovingly as he slips out of his trousers, his socks and his boxer.
Unceremoniously he crawls aside you and stares with his multicolour eyes in yours.
"Okay...", he mumbles nervously and cares upon your head, half sheered but still with some long locks to satisfy him. "Okay."
And suddenly you understand why he is so nervous. He kills women. He had never loved one. Only hated one.
"Touch me.", you whisper. "Touch me there.." And he does like the good boy he is in reality.
"Kiss me.", you mumble then. "Kiss me deeply. Kiss me where you never ever have kissed a woman before."
Webb smiles, a thrilled glimmer in his eyes. You want to speak more, to encourage him, but there is no need for that. Webb has now an idea in his mind, a new one, and he uses his fingers, his mouth, his tongue for that.
La petite Mort
Not so small after all. Nothing of him is. Not even the orgasm he gives you.
Both of you tangled limbs and trembling body, slowly finding breath again.
And then there is the point where you look him in his face, to realize now it is his turn. His mission.
So you didn't fight it. You didn't scream. Not, after he did as you wanted.
You stare up in his face as long as you are conscious.
With burning lungs, the pressure of water running down your nose and throat.
His face an expression of amazement and eventually peace.
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