Wednesday, December 21, 2005

The Slugs of Marrakech

One new thing that I learned while holidaying is that Morocco is soooooo the new Tangier. For those who blissfully unaware of what the old Tangier was, allow me to educate: Tangier was none other than the Dark Continent's premier gay knocking shop. The playground of the aging, late twentieth-centuary Eurogays who had learned that, though money might not be able to buy you love, it can certainly buy you a good seeing to. And what to do when you've worked your through all the local renters and most of your retirement funds? Simple - hop over to Tangier and get yourself something a little exotic and a lot cheap.
All this I learned from a book, you'll be glad to know. The very same book that told me that Marrakech - the aptly named Pink City - had succeeded in establishing itself as the new whorehouse of Africa for the twenty-first-centuary away-gay. Young colts are attracted from all over the continent to ply their trade and make their fortune off the back off some aged Euro-queen (no pun intended). Naturally, I was interested; and keen to learn just how close to the surface this seedy underworld really was.
So, what did I find? Well, an hideous variety of common-garden Slugs for starters. They were everywhere to be seen, slipping across the Jemaa El Fnaa or up the Avenue Mohammed V, alone and on edge. Typically they were around 40-60 years old, outrageously coiffed (mullets and blond hilights abounded), and horribly camp. In one of the more notorious clubs, there was even a Timmy Mallet multicoloured silk shirt combined with skullet on show (a skullet is the hairstyle of man who previously had a mullet but has now gone bald on top leaving only the straggly turbospoiler at the back).
Then there was the actual renters. With the gaydar switched to scan, these shone like stars in the Islamic darkness of Marrakech. Those in the Jemaa El Fnaa tended to go for the slightly-too-long stare technique or a sly wink if they were feeling confident. Another breed stood out for their attire. Immaculately dressed in the latest European fashions with pair of ubercool sunglasses permanently perched on their pretty preened heads, they were mainly to be found loitering around Place de la Liberté or, in one case, standing on the roadside near the most fashionable bar in town. One low-class prozzy drunkenly made a grab for the arse in way of a come on. All very amusing.
I couldn't help but feeling sorry for the little tikes. Not because they were prozzies - I'm sure it's a fairly lucrative game for some of them - but because they had to sleep with sweaty, leering old Euro slugs to earn their crust. Personnally, I think I'd rather see if there was any work going down the sewers before I considered that!


Blogger Note said...

One is usually safe from the most abnoxious, effete popinjays: they seldomly have any money to speak of, they're mostly out for show. The worst part is having to beat them off with the Creepy Stick after they try to dicker you down.

Seriously, one doesn't have to go with anyone.

10:54 am  

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