For quite some time, maybe about a month, while he was still waiting to meet a good woman, someone who knew how tobe sweet, obedient, respectful, generous and sexy, he gave mena try. They were easier to satisfy, simpler to please. He likedbeing with them, fooling around with them, sometimes naked,but they didn’t have to be. He’d let them suck on it. He’d penetrate them. He even imagined letting them have a shot at him.He wasn’t afraid, he’d give them his private gift if taking a cockup his ass was a way to get out of this shithole country.

Yes, it was a fact, men were nicer, less complicated, more playful, more generous. They would spend money on youwithout counting every penny, spend more than they evenhad. It was that simple, really. Men came as a total surprise tohim. They never interested him sexually before, but everything happens in its own good time, doesn’t it? He playedon their team now, had turned homosexual, but make no mistakes, only with foreigners. He’d never sleep with anotherMoroccan. Even the idea of being mistaken for a zamel inTangiers filled him with horror. Besides, he was no zamel, noway. It was women he found interesting, women who turnedhim on, and thanks to women, he still hoped to find a way outof this miserable country some day soon. That was the truth,the absolute truth. He wasn’t lying. He was ready to swear toit on the Holy Koran, if that’s what you wanted.

Mohamed talked a lot. He felt no shame. No embarrassment. He knew I was just like him, born in this bordello of a homeland, but that didn’t stop him. He said exactly what hewanted to and said it all with lucidity, courage and sometimeseven vulgarity. He was very moving, thanks to his beauty, hisnaiveté and his contradictions.

He was tall, light-skinned, brown-haired, always smiling, even when anger got the best of him. His eyes, his best feature,the thing you noticed right away when you met him for thefirst time, were very dark, immense.

Mohamed was handsome, really, really handsome. And even this adjective really isn’t right enough or strong enoughto describe how extraordinarily good looking he really was.

Jean cruised him in the Delacroix Arcade, the one at the entrance to the old part of Tangiers. And Mohamed followedhim right away.

I didn’t know what to make of this scenario: Jean, Mohamed and me.

Was this another reason Jean had come to Morocco, to getlaid by cute, young Moroccans? Hadn’t he come to Morocco to spend time with me, just me?

A dark cloud settled over my head, a nimbus it was impossible to send away, impossible to put into words.

Jean paid for everything, for both Mohamed and me.

Mohamed was heavenly, sublime, someone I couldn’t compete with.

I liked Mohamed too.