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WWWBT 15 – MONOIDEISM or let’s talk about…

Cockroaches. The ugly, disgusting, brown ones, which are wandering around my kitchen and my subconsciousness. . The ones not even my bloody Tomcat kills. And he literally kills any small moving creatures around. Well, hunts, plays with…

Any respectable neighbourhood in Dubai has its roaches. Bigger ones in Meadows, or Springs, or JLT. Reasonable ones in Tecom. And smelling-impaired ones in International City – because of the sewage treatment plant, of course. I bet 100 Dhs they’re smelling-impaired. No sane creature would willingly choose to live there. Les connaîsseurs savent!

Today, my Tecom roaches expressed their appreciation for my cooking skills by getting out alive and walking from the microwave, on the plate I was heating my famous chicken stew on. And I was sooooo hungry! I finished by having several gin tonics. There must be some calories in the gin tonic, right? Eventually, the scientists must know that: roaches are immune to my hatred and the waves in the microwave. Someone let them know, I’m enjoying my gin. And Bob Dylan!

One man! Who’s not THE MAN. It’s just one man you end up letting under your skin, though he might not have wanted to get there in the first place. And there’s nothing else you can think about. Ok, you’re right, there are millions of things to think about, and you have a job and you should really let the guys at work be sure you’re thinking exclusively about the business problems. (I think I’m hungry!) Focus, Clara! One man! His blue eyes, and his arms, and his back and all the silence between the words. What words? There were no words! He said something about a croissant. I didn’t say anything. And days go by, and problems in the office aren’t getting any less, and roaches are tasting your dinner – in the microwave, has anybody informed those scientists?!!, and this is the craziest music compilation I’ve ever listened to : B. B. King, Snoop Doggy Dog, Boyzone, Bob Dylan and now Edith Piaf. Oh, what do you know, I stopped for a second to think about The Man. Does this mean monoideism is curable? I’m kidding. Let’s talk about…

Weekends… Hm, I’ve already talked about them! (check the other chapters!)

Belgian Beer Café, in Grand Millenium, Tecom. Wonderful pub! Spent many nice afternoons there, with Lara. And Tecom is full of hotels, consequently pubs. We like to go to Belgian Beer Café. I like to go there. Because of my monoideism. That’s what we’re talking about, remember? Having gone to one pub, and continuing to go there because it’s cosy, because you know how the tables are arranged, and the plasma TVs, and the beer, and the rib eye, and the conversations are witty…

Lara: ‘So? How was he?’

What can you say about a man you know almost nothing about? And everything at the same time? There are at least three shades of grey in his blue eyes. That would be the most important thing. Then he is a man of very, very few words. Mostly onomatopoeia. Bear sounds when squat holding. Lion sounds when… Do lions like croissants? I bet they do! If roaches like my chicken stew…

Monoideism – a state of prolonged absorption in a single idea:


Above and Beyond.

X Japan.


Circuit Factory.

Alice in Wonderland.



And life!


WWWBT 14 or the never ending story

Of course I didn’t go to Su’s party. I cannot even remember why. I might have been busy that evening. Watching CSI. Listening to Barbra Streisand. Trying to write something. Knitting… So many interesting things a woman with her bloody TomCat can do! I mean, why would she go out, meet some nice people (all people are nice after some gin tonic!) and maybe, just maybe, end up making out with the sexiest man of the last decade? Really, why?
Lara was the one pointing it out.
‘You didn’t go?’
Silence. She seems so serious, I’m afraid she’ll start yelling at me. And I have a habit of breaking into million of small pieces whenever I’m yelled at. And it’s soooo complicated to put them all back!
‘You didn’t go? Why? You were waiting for Ulysses? Godot? End of the world? What exactly stopped you from going?’
And if I had an answer to this question, would it change anything? I’m not telling her that, she’s got a nasty look in her eyes. Like she’s just discovered one of my spiders in her tea. Or worse, her beer.
‘Are you planning to join some convent or something?’
I’m looking at her exactly like the model who was posing as some angel must have looked at Michelangelo.
‘Honestly now, what’s your problem? You don’t like the CF guy anymore? Still mourning Luca? Are you menstruating?’
‘Please, TomCat can hear you!’
We start laughing.
I brewed some coffee, lit some cherry cigarettes and we decided to talk about anything else but the CF guy, her problems in the office, global warming or why Cinderella should have worn some Nike sneakers instead of those crystal pointed shoes… Those Grimm guys were some misogynistic little….
‘Oh, come on, you didn’t wear any crazy shoes when you were young?’
Lara doesn’t have that serious look anymore; she is relaxed and very intellectual on a nice, peaceful Thursday evening.
‘Oh, yes,’ I’m reminiscing… ‘There was a black suede pair, high-heels, really high, thick soles, with laces. Really sexy…’
‘And I bet there was no misogynistic little…. to force you to wear them… Though they would kill your feet, and you would walk funny…’
‘What do you know?’, I ask rhetorically, with a little smile in the corner of my eyes.
I remember my strutting on the boulevard, with my little grey dress, showing off my knees…
‘Hey, come back!’
Lara yanks me out of my reverie, and I’m back in my living room talking about anything but the Japanese killing dolphins, bad people killing rhinos, Ebola and that nice movie with Dustin Hoffman…
Lara’s voice is serious, and I know I will have to speak about my not going to Su’s party.
I must look pretty desperate, because Lara gets up, hugs me and says…
‘I really need to go.’
As simple as that.
I’m alone with my thoughts; my hedonistic TomCat and I think I’m going to bed. I need to wake up early tomorrow.


CF session is as hard as usual, but somehow I’m enjoying it to the fullest. I have days when I can barely run the mile, and then I simply drag myself from one station to another. But today is different. Today I’m super planking as if there’s no tomorrow, and I am jumping like the craziest little goat in Africa, and… I’m feeling watched. Have you ever had the feeling that you’re being watched? You cannot literally dot the I, but there’s a sort of burden which makes all the crazy butterflies in your stomach go mad at the same time, and that’s not good.
The class is over, I drive back home, take all the sweat stuff off me, and yes, taking off sweaty sport bras is the worst, you need to contort and use inappropriate language and finally it’s off. And the shower is bliss and someone’s at the door. I turn off the water and keep quiet, hoping the unexpected guest – most probably the security guy or CD sellers or who cares, will go away thinking I’m not at home. The bell rings again, impatiently. What if there’s a fire? I can’t hear any fire alarm though. I decide to answer, eventually. I put the bathrobe on my wet skin, I’m all naked of thoughts, of desires, it’s just early morning, and I feel alive. Sounds contradictory, but it isn’t!
He stands in front of my door, with a newspaper under his right arm, his tired smile, and his incredibly grey-blue eyes.
I open the door wide, and he enters my apartment.
I close the door behind him and I grip my bathrobe to my wet body. I decide to play the nonchalant card and ask him if he wants a coffee.
He must have been for a run, he’s all sweaty and extraordinary cool. Mr. CF guy is in my living room, reading his newspaper while he waits for his coffee.
‘Some croissants would have been amazing.’
His voice is incredibly calm. He looks at me with that look I felt all morning in CF.Was he there? How did he know where I lived? What is he doing here? Does he want to know why I didn’t go to Su’s party? Does he simply want to have a coffee with me? While I’m dressed in a questionable bathrobe? Is he tired as well of not knowing what my skin tastes like? Or how many moles there are on my left elbow?
I’ve been fantasising about this man for almost a year. Maybe more. Time is of no relevance here. You can get infatuated with a pair of blue eyes and tens of years can pass by, and you’re in the same place, with your high heels, black suede shoes, strutting down the boulevard of your reminiscences…
The coffee is ready and we are both drinking it in silence.
Then I know I cannot wait anymore.
I stand up, walk in front of him and open my robe. He puts down the cup of coffee, helps me get rid of the robe. His palms are rough, my skin burns and I close my eyes while he takes me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom.

WWBT10 – why amoebae don’t go to CF and what Mercedes and cheese have in common

My living room is warmed up by a beautiful carpet – it’s white, with a huge red flower spreading its petals towards all four corners. It’s warm and alive, because if you’re patient, sometimes, you can feel the red flower sighing.
I rolled up the carpet and put it in a corner, it needs to be cleaned, and now my living room seems distant, cold, the French window gets reflected in the shiny tiles of the floor, and it’s as if I can open that reflection of the French window and walk through it into an alternative reality, where Luca didn’t exist and never left me.
Yesterday I managed to go back to CF. After almost more than three months. Of course today I can barely flex my legs or sit down. And it was scary. My going back. I can see myself paralysed in a corner, waiting for the class to start, barely breathing, prepared for that moment when my heart, tired of all the madness, would give up and stop. And yes, I was there, and I met old friends, and we hugged, and I was happy to see them, but I’m not sure I’ll be going back, though. I mean not as much as I used to go, regularly. I feel tired, as if my body is taking some kind of revenge, making me lie motionless in my/his leather armchair for hours. As if I’m trying to melt in the black leather, disintegrating into millions of cells, looking for his epithelial ones that must have been kept prisoners there, and absorbing them, like an amoeba… This amoeba can’t find that passion that used to wake her up at 5 a.m. Not anymore. It’s a void which has become my routine, a lack of vitality which seems to govern my every day counting of the hours.
‘Ok, this amoeba will get dressed in a minute and go out! Now!’
Rona looks over my shoulders and sniffs.
‘Let’s go for that breakfast! It’s getting late!’
She’s on a crusade to get me out of my low moods, and most of the time I would crawl into a corner, in a fetal position, and close my eyes and phase her out until she would give up and leave me alone.
But this weekend I don’t want to be an amoeba anymore.
We drive downtown and have a French breakfast on the terrace of a nice restaurant, by the lake. There’s so much light I could use two pairs of sunglasses.
We chitchat for a while, but then she gets a phone call and I get to look at the other people on the terrace. It’s a healthy habit, if you ask me. The young blond woman carefully picking up crumbs from the white tablecloth, the annoying curly-haired toddler who keeps kicking the table with his feet till the water in the glass spills and spatters on his father’s nice, Saturday suit. The French guy, luminous and full of life, reading Camus and keeping his latte cup in his left hand, with his little finger pointing up, like a precious primadonna. I had heard him ordering his ‘omelette’, that’s how I knew he was French.
This is a very nice place, and it feels literally far away from the city, though it’s not, as if the towers, and the traffic, and the noise, and the dust had vanished, and there’s nothing else but the bright lake, the blue sky, the French guy and his ‘omelette’, my cheese and Rona’s telephone conversation.
‘So, how’s your cheese?’
It seems she has ended her phone call. Her words reach me in slow motion, as if travelling through a high density liquid, like honey. Would they taste sweet to my ears if so? Is cheese a sweet word? I wonder what my left ear thinks. The right one is a little impaired, so it cannot be a reliable witness.
I don’t utter anything; I just cut another small piece with my fork, and put it in my mouth. It tastes a little sour, but it has an interesting consistency, almost aristocratic. Now, that’s an interesting thought.
‘Do you remember how I always say that Mercedes have that aristocratic…. attitude?’
Of course I can understand her bewilderment; she looks at me as if I’m eating a Mercedes.
‘That’s how this cheese tastes like. I mean, I don’t know what an aristocratic taste should taste like, it’s just a feeling.’
She finally swallows her bite, thank God she hasn’t choked, I saw the Heimlich maneuver only in the movies. On the other hand, it would have been a very pertinent reason to address a few words to the French guy, wouldn’t it? Asking for help… Shall I bewilder her one more time? I’m like the thunder here, cannot be both spontaneous and witty twice in a row.

WWWBT 3 – A little bit of Circuit Factory


The nine hours in the office pass so quickly I realize it’s 6 pm and I need to get changed and drive to CF. It’s become a routine, a discipline like the one making a watch wheels perfectly functional, the escape from the daily boredom, the breathe of air dissipating my depressions.

I’m still excited and nervous, even after five months. As if driving to meet a lover. The perfect body. The most perfect blue eyes. The passionate lips, sweet and savage, I can’t get enough of their kiss. One hour of sweaty pain and inhumane exhaustion. That’s Circuit Factory! I’m drawn to it like a fly to a candle flame.

Ok, I have to be honest here. The guys are hot. The ones I like, of course! The ladies… Well, I can’t comment on the ladies, there’ll be a lot of naughty commentaries and unnecessary labels applied. But they are even hotter! The tights, the camisoles, the hair, the sweaty necks, the moans and the groans, the black mats, the yellow mats, the music, the stretches, the sweat… He’s all wet, gasping for air, so close to me, I could smell his breath… Oh, my dear, stop it, you’re going to the gym, remember?

The roads are busy and I’m a little nervous I might be late. I get there in time, fortunately, I chose to get almost killed, I leave the gym with a large grin on my face that could translate into an immense satisfaction…

The evening is peaceful, full of Facebook, trance music and some Johnny Walker. Perfect fuel for a couple of letters that might turn into a couple of words that might turn into a little story…

There’s someone at the door. Tomcat starts pacing nervously in front of it, meowing annoyingly as if it were hungry.

‘Hey, Sweety, what’s up?’

Luca is tired. He pets the cat, drops his backpack on the floor, gets one bottle of water and collapses on the black leather armchair.

‘Oh, you’re watching 300? While listening to Above and Beyond? Interesting!’

His smile is tired.

‘Look at these guys! They must have all trained at Circuit Factory!’

His laughter is tired.

I make him a chamomiles tea and I send him to bed. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.


Insomnia is back. Nothing works. I try meditating, as I read once in THE MONK WHO SOLD HIS FERRARI. Which I haven’t finished, by the way. After about 100 pages, maybe even less, my skepticism and sarcasm burst like a crazy volcano, covering in laughter and mockery what I had previously read. Some parts got stuck, though. For example, the peaceful place. Or something like that. I tried to go to my peaceful place – that’s a pear tree in the orchard of my grand-grandmother, back Home. The grass is green, there are some small, yellowish flowers here and there, and I’m just lying on my back, under the pear tree, watching the sky. It’s all the peace one need to die. If you aim for a happy death, that is. Gosh, I’m being morbid here.

I turn on the TV. RESIDENT EVIL. Nice. I manage to wake up Luca. Thank God tomorrow’s weekend.

WWWBT 2 – Where the WWBT tells us about CF and some blue eyes


It’s not easy to get up after the one hundred beers from last night. Tomcat is more precise and more convincing than any alarm clock. And he’s persistent! I’d take him and lock him in the living room, but I have to wake up.

Breakfast exercises. Barely conscious, on an empty stomach, I have to do squats and burpees. That’s the rule in the Challenge. The videos which should explain us the moves are more concupiscent than fitness explanatory. Some of them, I admit. Or I’m still stuck in the last days delirious sexual outrage with young Mr. Rob. But I’m not gonna reminiscence about things that are even more revolting – for a shy, conservative, stubborn, 40 years old lady – than those read in 50 SHADES OF GREY. Oh, now that I remember. They shouldn’t sell these books to single ladies. Or they should put a warning, or make a bundle and sell it with a vibrator. Come on, marketing people, I bet you can come up with something!

So… reminiscence… Ok… Maybe a little…

He’s got blue eyes. Of course. Wonderful blue eyes that he keeps half close, as if he’s just waking up, or almost falling asleep, or ready to come… You never know. He moves slowly, hypnotizing, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. And he’s pretty much aware of it.

He starts by sending me pictures of him. In the bathroom, with just a towel around his waist, the mirror is steamy and the pic is a teaser, but I can still count the squares on his abs.

He’s literally a dream come true. He’s the most beautiful man who has ever told me he liked me. I mean, ok, I wasn’t born yesterday, of course it was a text, but who cares? For a couple of hours, I was the happiest woman alive.

What followed is wild and if someone is saving the streams on Skype, I hope they really enjoyed what they saw and won’t post it to some adult site or anything.

The morning routine is not bad. I wouldn’t say I enjoy it, but it gives me a boost of energy for the rest of the day that I’m very much appreciative of. Although, I can think of another morning routine…

He’s kneeling between her open legs. He’s gently sliding his palms under her buttocks, lifting her pelvis up and down… She’s feeling her core muscles contracting, as if doing sit ups…

Not very convincing. Regardless of the topic, I end up talking about burpees, oat bran, 1 mile running PB (personal best)… I dream of a 5 minute one when I grow up.

Maybe I should really hit that shower and go to the office. It’s late already.


I’m wearing a grey blouse, and my white bras is slightly visible, but in a decent manner, proper for a day in the office. The cleavage may be considered naughty, but I don’ t have time to analyze it too much, Dana is asking me to go to her desk. I drop the laptop and I head toward her desk, strutting in my brown boots.

She’s signaling me to approach her face, and she’s whispering secretively:

‘Honey, you’re nipples are showing.’

I burst into a noisy laughter – on the inside, of course, it’s a crazy party inside my head, Rob would be thrilled.

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I’m still decent for the office. Time to do some work.

WWWBT 1 – Meet the Woman With the Bloody Tomcat


My friend, Lara, has been pushing me to write about my men. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not collecting men, I don’t work in the industry and, just for the record, I haven’t had sex in quite some time. Real one, I mean. The dream sex or the accidental Skype ones don’t count, right?

When you’re 40, not that ‘appetizing’ like the young, slim, glittering ladies wondering around in the open air – yes, they’re 20, what do they care?, pathologically shy, and sometimes blonder that one should ever be, the chances to find a decent guy in this city are … How should I put it to get the right image from the first shot? Like winning a Pulitzer price with a text like this. DITO.

‘Make it funny. Some sort of a Bridget Jones’ diary. Sex and the city. And don’t forget to give all the dirty details on the Skype adventure with the young Mr. Rob.’

‘Sex and the City? I’m not that good of a writer. Can I write instead about my trainings with Circuit Factory? They’re as sweaty and demanding like the real stuff, you know? I’m all worn out after a session.’

Lara looks at me and drinks from her beer. It’s a peaceful evening, and we’d gotten out to a small pub in a hotel nearby. To meet men. Socialize. Have some ridiculously expensive beers, watching two or three matches in the same time, having to scream to one another in order to hear us. And of course, the men were all watching the games too. It’s fun, though. Especially because she’s paying.

She’s going to the bathroom, and I’m all alone with my thoughts again. The guy on the right seems cute, as much as I can figure out by watching his nape. I check my phone, no message from Rob.

Rob is 31, he’s somewhere very far away from me, he’s got the most concupiscent blue eyes I’ve ever allowed to see me naked over Skype. And…

‘So, no more beer for a month?’

Yeah, tomorrow I start the challenge with Circuit Factory. It’s my third one, and I’m decided not to cheat anymore – meaning clean diet and no more sneaky glasses of wine before going to bed.

I’ve started this relationship sometime last year, in August. More seriously in November. And it’s been more rewarding than any of my latest relationships. Except for the one with my Tomcat.

He’s always there for me. Mostly because I don’t allow him to get out of the apartment. And not that he didn’t try to. Several times, actually. And I’m moody, and I leave him alone, and when I’m with him I mind my own business and even if he tries to beg for a little affection, I’m still very stingy and I rather read a book or waste my time on Facebook than pet him a little. Poor bastard!

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