Thus, here I present to you the Big Moment. The weeping boy at the very pit of My heart. One dusty afternoon, after grooming Myself with new clothes and cologne, I decided to take a lazy ride on a feluca. My guide advised a certain boat, Tom & Jerry, with a sailor named Mahmud, and I accepted the offer. I was hand-held on a plank to cross the boat, yet still I tripped and fell off several times. In fact, it took about nine attempts to actually reach the boat. But, by God, it was worth it! For when I stumbled onto the boat, My eyes were blessed with the site of a young boy. A young boy, I tell you. My teeth grinded and My legs shook like palm leaves at the mere sight of him. He was just heaven-sent, with honey-hued skin, wispy dark hair and… oh, those eyes! The boy was surely made from a blend of cream and toffee apples! How very dignified he looked, like a Pharaoh! How golden he looked as the sun shone straight at him! It was love at first sight! And at forever sight! I lost all concentration throughout the trip, and uttered one-line responses to all questions. Arms folded, I sneaked glimpses here and there at My ripe honey-boy. But oh! When he returned My peeks, I all but turned to sand. So many questions ran through My head - how old was he? From where did he hail? Was this distinguished young man a street urchin, rescued to work on a feluca? Curiosity bit on My brain cells. The only thing I knew was that he was The One. The one and only.
I sailed the very same felucca several times, in order to quench My thirst for the boy, whose name I discovered to be Samara. What a beautiful name! The mere sound of it brings a pang of joy to My ears! Sa-ma-ra, with a rolled R. Samara, it rhymes with Sahara. How I would love to elope to the Sahara with him, and no one but! I analysed the boy intensely, from the way that he blinked in the sun, to how his sturdy toffee-coloured legs ran to the mast. It also appeared to Me that Samara was mute… a prospect that deeply saddened me. I wondered what brought on his condition, and whether there could be a cure. I was positive that a kiss from Myself would cure him in an almost instant.
� Ah, what eye candy to see him perched at the very front of the felucca as we sailed across the Nile… oh, what a joy! Oh! My heart thumped rapidly inside My chest, thrashing to and thro. What a fool, I was acting rather like a teenager! Which brought Me to the question of the age of My honey-boy. My heart dropped at this point ------- could he be below the age of acceptance? I studied him further: no, his limbs are far too well-developed, firm and muscular. No, no, My honey-boy was 16 at least, at this I rejoiced. It makes it acceptable in the book of Honest Goodcharity.
� Alas, My everyday thoughts were filled with Samara, Samara, Samara. Samara, God dash it! Each night, I prayed to God to end My torment, and cease punishing Me for a change. And each morning, when I was awoken by the call to prayer, it was Samara's name that I heard as I sobbed into My pillow. Samara Akbar.
In a misguided attempt to fit in with the local inhabitants, I purchased - for the small sum of LE10 - a billowing white "man dress", which seems to be all the rage here in Louqsor. Twas a tad too large for My delicate frame but a delight to wear nonetheless. Donning My new attire, I took a stroll along the corniche and, with squinted eyes, I searched across the Nile for My sweet, sweet Samara. Can you possibly imagine My excitement when I did spot My honey-boy swinging upon the mast of the Tom & Jerry, the Tom & Jerry, God damn it. I squealed like a young child at the sight of a candy bar, and jumped up and down, waving My arms in a bid to catch his eye. Waving a kerchief, I suddenly came over all peculiar and passed out. When I opened My eyes again, I was no longer on the Louqsor corniche, but in a place and time that I had cared not to think about for many a year. Standing over Me was My ice God, Janis, platinum hair blowing wildly around his ruddy face. Good gosh, the boy was just made to be spread across the pin-up pages of Gay magazines! Ah, the mere thought of My blond Adonis made My heart spin! He giggled mischievously as he ran, beckoning Me to follow. I did as he asked and we soon arrived on a Baltic beach, which I remember quite well to this day. Oh sweet Jesus, Janis was clad in nothing but tight red swimming shorts, his neat little bottom tucked within just perfectly. How I artfully wished, in the depths of My bleeding soul, for the shorts to just burst somehow and be off with! It was, I confess, rather a homoerotic moment. As he playfully threw sand at My person, oh… how content I was at that moment! I chased him, laughing ecstatically, My heart beating at unnatural rates. But then… alas, the moment ended. I was now curled up in a foetal position on the ground of the Russian quarter of� Riga, surrounded by a group of cackling Slavic boys… with, I repeat, with My Janis amongst them. It was he who hurled the first stone, I tell you, and the other lads followed, pelting Me until I was sobbing like a young child whose candy bar had been seized from him. I felt most pathetic. I sobbed and I sobbed… and after this period of blackness, I opened My eyes and found Myself back on the corniche of Louqsor. My "man dress" (of which I had been so proud) was now flung up over My head, My bloomers revealed once again. Could I possibly be humiliated any further than I had already been? I was sobbing mostly loudly and violently that the tourist police had to come and drag Me away.
� I was imprisoned until I came to My senses. Though I don't think I ever did.