I’m sleepless, miles away from Beirut.
“Sais tu ce que je vois au Skybar?”
I can’t yet decide whether he is drunk or not, because Hugg is unpredictable that way. But I have an inkling it’s going to be some deep observation about how ridiculous it all is.
I have to admit, for a brief second, I was tempted to take the car and go. I only had to look outside the window for the thought to vanish.
“I’m about to do something really weird,” he says without saying hello.
“I’m going to the opening…”
“C’est la meilleure! Il était malade, il ne voulait pas sortir et dès qu’il est invité pour faire la fête, il se présente sans fièvre! Hahaha, t’es incroyable! Vraiment”
“Oui, je sais. I have these hormones that are telling me I shouldn’t stay home”
“Hahaha, je te comprends bien. Même si je déteste cet endroit, c’est vrai que j’avais fait pareil. Nous sommes des vrais libanais, comme c’est pourri! Tu veux y aller, resquiller, t’asseoir devant la table, pour que les gens te voient, le beau gosse! J’aurais aimé voir ton entrée.”
“You know what I really wish for? Que t’étais avec moi! Remember the last time we went out together to Buddha Bar? And that other night? Remember that? You and me?”
“Yes I do. Very clearly. We looked great.”
“I’m going to put on my white shirt,” he laughs “Imagines ça with my Mexican tan.”
“I really wish you were with me!”
“I wish you were here! It’s surreal. I’m out on the balcony and I see nothing but complete darkness, and thousands of stars.”
I wasn’t lying to him nor myself, I would choose the peace and quiet over the desperate and aggressive bodies throbbing one against the other.
There is something about Skybar…
That turns me into a cynical, angry, frustrated bitch.
I remember my first, and last, Skybar experience.
I was with Prince, my best friend at the time, at another roof top party. We were having a fine time, until Freud messaged me, telling me to come to Skybar, and I thought, “Why not?”.
It would be kind of exciting to steal his glances while his wife turned away briefly to say something into her friends’ ears.
The crowd outside made me wince, “Why all this desperation? Why this need? Where did everyone’s pride go?”
I had so many questions. I was hoping the answers would be laid out for me upstairs. I would be on top of the world.
We had to wait a quarter of an hour to come close enough to the “man with the golden list” and then a couple of minutes for him to actually look us in the eye.
A few days back I saw a pick-up truck driving sheep to the slaughterhouse. I hadn’t seen something this cruel in a long time: the sheep were just thrown one on top the other, all I could make out were legs, fur and heads and not one individual body. I could tell they were alive.
Finally, we were upstairs. I saw familiar faces, muah, muah, muah. The entrance was crowded with people and the stench coming from the bathrooms. When I say the entrance was crowded, I mean very crowded, and the decks themselves, well they were packed. Yet somehow people could move. And somehow we moved towards the middle, until I could see Freud in his strategic position that overlooked the bar or rather the bare backs that framed it. I waved hello and he sent me a generous smile.
I looked up at the upper deck and there were men looking down at us. They looked like hawks, their eyes scanning the landscape that swayed below. A single word that came to mind: meat market. It wouldn’t go away.
I imagined each one of them, sweaty in their suits, looking for their secret fetishes. The perfect bounce of a pair of breasts, the perfect length of hair, the juiciest lips, the roundest hips, the tastiest tummy, the most sensual backs, the fiercest arch, the strongest grips, the trashiest walk, the tightest bum, the longest nails, the largest feet, the wettest spot, the deepest welcome, the softest suck, the liveliest flesh…the images wouldn’t go away.
“I need to leave,” I told Prince.
Even when we were back down, the dirt and grit stuck to me. I was disgusted. I wanted to take a shower and go to sleep and forget it all.
To be fair, it was my own mind playing tricks on me, making me react the way I did.
A trigger. No bullet exits into wounds without a trigger.
I was shot real bad.
Here, the stars shoot and I make wishes.