It's good to be gay!
Part 1: "I finally made it to fuckin' Canada."
October 28, 2005
My second cousin Sohrab had a way with women. The only child of an affluent Iranian family and blessed with good looks and a body like Greek Gods, Sohrab sacked just about any woman he laid eyes on. He was so popular with women that the kids in the neighborhood named him, "Pahlevan-eh Otaagh-khaab."
Sohrab, a twenty-year-old high school dropout, didn't have a real job and lived with his folks in a big house in the northern part of Tehran. He made his money as a personal trainer at a trendy exercise facility called Dorrabi's Fitness Center and Spa. He made additional money by selling steroids to the children of the revolution who dreamed of looking like Arnold, fighting like Mike Tyson and getting laid like Sohrab.
Sohrab also made money working as a hired gun. You could hire Sohrab to beat up anybody you didn't like. From frustrated lovers to people in conflict with their neighbors and family members, disgruntled businessmen or jealous boyfriends, Sohrab's services in shooting and looting was in high demand.
Sohrab once beat the crap out of this poor guy for sending love letters to the wife of the neighborhood grocery store owner. Sohrab beat the guy all winter. The guy not only stopped writing love letters, he moved out of town and was not heard from again.
Sohrab beat up a fifteen-year-old once because the kid was not performing at school. The father hired Sohrab, thinking that a good beating would bring the kid back to his senses. Sohrab went a little overboard and broke the kid's legs. Poor thing missed all his classes, flunked school and had to redo the entire school-year again.
Nevermind alll that.
Being a male-whore was another one of Sohrab's trades. His animal magnetism was too much for older women to resist and his gigolo services were sought after by married women in Tehran and the suburbs. Sohrab aimed to please and was very good at what he did. His cell phone was constantly buzzing. He referred to his services as escape from reality for women whose husbands never paid any attention to their needs. Even though the husbands of many of Sohrab's female clients knew about all the nasty things he did to their wives, no one dared face up to him.
Sohrab was also a great dancer and a renowned DJ. He could flawlessly mix Baba-Karam with Black Eyed Peas and regarded Deep Dish as a couple of tone-deaf pussies who couldn't mix protein shakes let alone music. His parties were the talk of the town and his guests were the elite of Tehran's party scene. His abundant supply of drugs, alcohol, and hair gel products brought in hipsters like the new generation of moviemakers, cool kids for hire for political campaigns, wife-searching expats from L.A., underground rock bands who bastardized U2's music and the rest of the wannabes.
Life was good for my second cousin Sohrab but still there was something missing. Sohrab found Tehran suffocating and felt that his talents went to waste in an environment that did not truly foster what he had to offer. He knew that he could be a great success if he lived abroad -- maybe even a movie star. But there was one problem: Sohrab, for the life of him, could not obtain a visa to Europe, Canada or the US. This was not due to the lack of effort. Sohrab tried numerous times to acquire visa to an English speaking country but he was turned down every single time. One look at Sohrab and the embassy personnel knew that this boy will not return to the Islamic Republic of Iran -- ever again.
Early this month I received a surprise call from Sohrab.
"Coz, guess what?" Sohrab shouted on the phone.
"I'm in Canada, baby. I finally made it to fuckin' Canada."
"You did? How did you get a visa?" I asked.
"Oh, dude ... this, you got to hear. You ready? Are you sitting down? ... They gave me a visa because ... I'm gay."
"Yeah, baby ... I'm so gay, it's not even funny. I'm talking flames shooting out of my ass, baby." >>> Part 2
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3 ]