Let me know if you're reading by joining the Sleepless in Beirut page




I'm sleepless in Beirut.

We found ourselves on the way to Faraya. The road was empty and the villages we passed were close to deader than dead. It was hours past bedtime and our eyes too blinked like the flickering lights that lit our way higher and further into some memory of snow blanketed landscapes. 

It was the same desolate road and the same yellow light that punctuated my second date with Capitalyst. My salty sweat was still fresh from The Basement and the excitement freshly glazed with anxiety. 

"Btw, that invitation to the Cedars, or rather Faraya, is not half-hearted.  You do ski, right? Perhaps you'd join me for a day on the slopes this Sunday?  It would be downhill skiing, so no special equipment necessary.  We can even have dinner at Le Montagnou - Fondue and Pierrade, or for something more traditional Shaker's Bayd bi 2awerma would be plenty good.", he wrote.

The plan to spend the night in Faraya at his friend's chalet wasn't half-hearted either. At first I was hesitant. I was sure I wasn't going to be able to handle the where-to-sleep issue with grace. I was afraid of coming off as a prude, but I was also unwilling to put myself in a position where I would have to ward off any unexpected advances. 

But the awkwardness of the situation was too tempting to pass up. I was sure to walk away with a story. More importantly, I wanted to see him again.

So there we were, slithering up the mountain road, traces of snow making their first appearance within the first half an hour of the trip. On our way up, we made room in the trunk for a bunch of drunk teenagers looking for an easy way to get back home. 

He drove up to the deserted Warde station. We sat in the car, the sunroof open to reveal all the full-stops left by shriveled nebulas. I would tense up every time he would come within an inch's distance to my face. Looking back, one could say that I had a phobia of appearing as an easy girl

I know better now, I am anything but. Yes, if easy means that I have laid to rest all my complexes regarding sex in this society, then yes, I am easy, still, and forever will be. But I'm complex and complicated and I am capable of writing wonderful equations to justify A+B=C, because it's never C, it's always A+B. I don't have sex, I make love. It comes easy to me. White flag. I'm an easy girl. 

And it was this particular phobia that handicapped me for quite a while. I've let go of it, just as I've let go of potentially beautiful moments that I walked past like one passes a sex shop. Is7a...

My handicap wasn't invisible either. I wasn't sitting in the passenger seat of his car: I was in a wheelchair. I don't recall his reaction word-for-word, they were big big words one after the other and amidst anxiety, the inner battlefield and feeling intimidated by his to-the-point attitude I completely blanked out. When it was my turn to say something, I could barely muster a stammer. 

"Let's go to the chalet. They must be there by now. Maybe you will relax a little."

Relax I did. It was an authentically furnished cozy little nook with a friendly host and amiable guests. Up until then, I had had very little chance to meet the kind of people a mother would like you to meet: young, nice, educated, cultured. I wouldn't say I was in my own element, but it's an element I always wished to be a part of.

My cheeks returned to a rosy red until everyone began to turn in.

"Where are we going to sleep?"

"In the guest room."

That must mean same bed? I peered inside. It was a big bed, we could fit my invisible friend between us two. If only he could see him!

But Capitalyst was sweet. Bittersweet. He didn't want another friend. I had to make a choice. That night I chose to interject my invisible friend so as to better sleep on it.

Funny how things change. How big beds take the backstage, how society fades into the background, how we claim to want change when the way we think is backwards, how we preserve virginity by taking it in the back, how we stab each other's backs. Take the back door exit and leave this circus, the real carnival is yours to make.


  1. You make love? You sound like anything but easy.

  2. so "having sex" makes you easy as opposed to "making love"?
    I just have to say that it's all about choice. Of course there should always be feelings and affection involved, or else it's just fucking and that's selfish and never fun. However, to claim that you're making love to these people just to prove that you're not easy does not make sense to me. It's still sex and it's still promiscuous, but it's your choice and your conviction, and being in control of your life is all that counts.
    Being easy is a stupid concept created by a patriarchal society that couldn't handle women making their own choices