Saturday, July 15, 2006
The Secret Admirer I
After the unexplainable episode in the park with the mysterious Aziz from the SNB Institute, I wondered if having put in an appearance at the Pionerskaya banya meant that the whole gay underground network of Tashkent now knew about me and was abuzz with my arrival. I also had a dread feeling that something adverse loomed ahead for me.
I felt paranoid on my walks through the park on my way home from work in the evenings, finding the stares of the men sitting on the benches to be menacing. The attention that I had learned to play with, suddenly did not feel fun or flattering. What did they know about me, really?
By midweek, I started having the office driver drive me home. I had the air-conditioning repaired and stayed inside nights with the lights turned down. I sat on the floor, lit candles, listened to music, smoked my cigarettes and drank beer alone.
One morning that week I received an unusual email at work from an unknown address "saint72." It read:
Perhaps this was a practical joke from a friend, or an office mate, or, more alarming, a trap of sorts from the SNB. So, I just deleted it and decided to put it out of my head, trying not to let my leery imagination get the best of me, though I’d look at the people around me suspiciously. I told no one about the email or any of these things, such as the park, the banya, or anything for that matter, even to my trusted expatriate friend, Henrietta, whom I could tell everything and anything. I now had secrets and it felt like I had no one to share them with. ¶ 6:55 AM
After the unexplainable episode in the park with the mysterious Aziz from the SNB Institute, I wondered if having put in an appearance at the Pionerskaya banya meant that the whole gay underground network of Tashkent now knew about me and was abuzz with my arrival. I also had a dread feeling that something adverse loomed ahead for me.
I felt paranoid on my walks through the park on my way home from work in the evenings, finding the stares of the men sitting on the benches to be menacing. The attention that I had learned to play with, suddenly did not feel fun or flattering. What did they know about me, really?
By midweek, I started having the office driver drive me home. I had the air-conditioning repaired and stayed inside nights with the lights turned down. I sat on the floor, lit candles, listened to music, smoked my cigarettes and drank beer alone.
One morning that week I received an unusual email at work from an unknown address "saint72." It read:
You are beautiful man.
I see you on the street.
You have the love in your eyes.
Can I meet you sometimes?
Please excuse my poor English.
Perhaps this was a practical joke from a friend, or an office mate, or, more alarming, a trap of sorts from the SNB. So, I just deleted it and decided to put it out of my head, trying not to let my leery imagination get the best of me, though I’d look at the people around me suspiciously. I told no one about the email or any of these things, such as the park, the banya, or anything for that matter, even to my trusted expatriate friend, Henrietta, whom I could tell everything and anything. I now had secrets and it felt like I had no one to share them with. ¶ 6:55 AM
