“I am so fucked.”

Sex and the City (season 1, episode 4)

The Tel Avivian Alpha Fag

Asking a homosexual to house-sit your apartment in Tel Aviv for two weeks during summer vacation could only mean one thing: the Summer of Love in the Middle East.

Same-sex attraction in Israel attracted hatred at worst, and microaggressions at best. Families monitored their members the way God tested his prophets. It was safer to stay in the closet.

But when my best friend and family both went abroad concurrently, I got my first opportunity to do in Israel as I pleased.

I put my luggage in my friend’s apartment. No sooner had she left with her boyfriend than I opened Grindr.

Tel Aviv was known for hairy, fem queens who sported nail polish, grew out beards, and let their chubby belly out. But gay dating apps were a different story.

It wasn’t a pretty one. Or rather, it was too handsome. Tall guys with trimmed beards, tanned skin, and bulging muscles dominated the grid. They had the perfect amount – and distribution – of body hair. They had rugged features and too-hot-for-this dispositions. And they looked for the same.

“Muscle only,” their profiles read in Hebrew.

“Looking for sporty guys.”

“Masculine, light, respectful – looking for someone similar.”

“100% real manly, attracted to manly guys only.”

Gays all over the world would lie if they spurned the same police sketch of a partner-in-crime. In the Promised Land, however, they chased it loudly and proudly, for everyone but God to see.

Israeli guys were either buff, or fat. Skinny exceptions were not on the food pyramid. If Japan was the twink capital of the world, the Middle East was the meatpacking district.

The alpha gays had it going on here. And they loathed it here.

“Hate this app, different from everyone here, I’m a nice guy.”

“Enough with the fucking taps.”

“No reply means no interest, quit nagging.”

They only looked for “someone” or “something real”.

They boasted their lack of “blending” with the local community. They didn’t party. Those who did were addicted to drugs and hookups. They took PreP, spurned condoms, and shoved hands into bar-hoppers’ pants.

“מה הראש?” (“What’s the head?”)

“מחפש לזרום.” (“Looking to flow.”)

“כמה הכלי?” (“How long is the tool?”)

Life in Israel revolved around national security. Constant fighting and terrorism had deified the military so much, that aggression had penetrated the rainbow brigade. Some soldiers used photos of themselves in uniform on Grindr, and advertised their military service on their profile.

Well-endowed members spread the word on their own. The addition of “hung,” “XL,” or a simple eggplant emoji to their profile was like a crown on their headless torso. They stayed in the closet. They hid their faces, and relied on their abs. When asked for a face picture, they would message you without sending one.

But they often scorned the exchange of nude photos.

“A good guy,” they wrote about themselves.

“Well built.”

“Intelligent, sexy, kind, and friendly.”

“I try to be nice.”

“High quality.”

In the Holy Land, no amount of bragging was sinful.

There was room for everyone on the grid, far from the eye of their parents and God. Guys in open relationships – and closed ones – knew each other in the biblical sense. Others wanted to pay for sex (“support”), or get paid for it (“supported”). Those over thirty-five usually omitted their age.

The exception to this was “straight” guys who were on the hunt for trans women or cross-dressers.

Finally, the viscous crème of the crop messaged you, and then blocked you before you could open the app.

As for the mortals who were neither hyper-masculine nor hyper-feminine…

“New to this world,” my profile read. “Here to learn.”

I tried to immigrate to Sodom. Yet pearls always ignored pebbles.

Then, the exception to the rule opened its gate.

The Horse Hung Bottom Who Broke Hearts

Eliav was one of the only profiles strictly limited to face pictures. He resembled a Middle Eastern teddy bear: large and round features, light brown skin, a scruff, and a photogenic grin.

We’d started texting three weeks ago. The conversation had flowed like my sighing at his photos. We’d chatted about light-hearted topics, such as his collection of Pokémon pillows. Until he’d heard my desire to move abroad, expressed his desire for a serious relationship, wished me well, and blocked me.

My chest had deflated like a suffocating balloon. For a few days, I had moped. Then his profile had re-appeared on my grid.

“I’d love to hang out sometime,” I’d texted. “See if there’s a connection.”

“I’m looking for something serious,” he’d said.

I’d wished him good luck, and ended the conversation.

The following week, the agenda on his profile had changed from love to hookups. I messaged him out of curiosity, doubtful that it would lead somewhere.

“I’m still looking for love,” he said. “But sometimes I trip on the way there.”

He explained that he never exchanged flesh with strangers, but “tripped” only with people he didn’t know personally.

“Isn’t that the definition of a stranger?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

“I only meet those I have no interest in,” a reply came a few days later. “You can come over now if you want.”

My heart skipped a beat. All was not lost!

Then I humphed in realization. He didn’t want me.

Why had he talked to me at length before finding out my plan to relocate, then?

A one-night stand was the least of my desires. Yet I agreed to meet him, curious to examine his level of interest. It began to match our original chat.

A couple of Pokémon-related sexual jokes on my behalf did the job: an invitation followed.

“I need to tell you something, though,” I said. “I’ve been looking for someone special to try penetration with. I’ll understand if this deters you.”

“Not at all,” he said. “But let’s talk first and see how it goes.”

“That’s partially why I’m into you,” I rejoiced. “You don’t fuck straight away or ask about each other’s bodies.”

“I’d love to learn with you,” he said.

I was practically jumping for joy.

“Well, don’t be too cute,” he texted later that day. “How’s the dick?”

I answered despite my disappointment, without asking about his. Then he ghosted me.

He remained active on the two apps where we chatted. I felt so betrayed, that I couldn’t talk to anyone – not even a cute guy who had been texting me around the clock lately.

For the first time in my life, I couldn’t even write.

“So when are you coming?” Eliav asked on the day of our meeting.

I blinked at my phone in confusion. Had he failed to find a greener pasture?

“Are you really interested in me,” I asked, “or just see me as a last resort?”

His lack of reply spoke volumes.

“I should’ve bounced the moment you said you weren’t interested,” I continued. “I didn’t mind coming over simply for a conversation. But now I’m just babbling. You don’t have to respond.”

He did not. I met my friends in Tel Aviv on the verge of tears.

“I don’t understand where all this mess is coming from,” Eliav texted at night. “I hope everything’s okay. But I’m not looking for someone I have to teach.”

I read this in the parking lot by my friend’s apartment, and couldn’t bear to start the engine.

Was this my first letdown? I wondered while driving back home. Eliav didn’t make me cry. But no one else attracted me.

“Can we talk?” my voice quivered through the phone.

“What’s wrong?” my childhood friend asked, not used to hearing me vulnerable.

I filled her in on everything.

“Meet me at the Horse in ten minutes,” she ordered.

We lived a seven-minute walk from each other, near a geometrically abstract sculpture of a horse that neighed by our elementary school.

I almost cried as we strolled around the quiet suburb. My friends hadn’t seen me break down in misery, let alone triggered by another person.

“You did everything right,” she said in the end. “He’s the one who’s projecting all his mess. He’s fickle, in denial about his feelings, and totally not worth it.”

A few days passed. I lay at night, riddled with conscience. I still wanted him, but more than that, to put this behind me.

I also owed him an apology.

“What for?” he asked. “I see no point in talking without moving and trying.”

He had no interest in emotions.

“I wanna move and try,” I said.

“But why me?” he asked. “I’m looking for a man who will fuck me. Do you have Telegram?”

“Because no one attracts me like you do,” I said. “I want to fuck you until your ass burns like your Charmander pillow. And I have no idea what’s Telegram.”

“You sound like a man,” he said. “I like it.”

He sent me his phone number.

“Let’s meet today.”

Jackpot.

My siblings had the car, though. So instead, we just talked about sex.

“I like to cum three to five times in one session,” Eliav said. “I can cum ten times when I jerk off.”

“That’s… anatomically impossible,” I replied, incredulous. “You must hold a world record.”

I was dying to meet him.

“I want someone who can keep up,” he said. “I really want you to come. Make an effort for me.”

It pained me to say no. I shared a car with two siblings.

The next day, he blocked me. I almost screamed in frustration.

By now, however, I knew who I was dealing with. And besides, I had his number.

“Get ready to break a world record,” I texted him the following day. He invited me over.

Men were so simple.

“I want a selfie,” he said.

I took one while smirking from a very low angle and giving him the finger.

“Gorgeous,” he said, and sent me his address.

I blasted my mom’s old Tina Turner CD from the 1980’s on the way there. Finally, I’d get to talk to Eliav in person.

“I’m home alone, come over,” Harel, an on-and-off friend with benefits, texted me outside Eliav’s gate. I was Harel’s only same-sex experience.

I ignored this message and put my phone on silent. Disappointment filled me the moment Eliav emerged.

He looked different in person. Chubby and sullen, rather than beaming and sharp.

“It’s medical,” he said while smoking pot. “I’ve had two motorcycle accidents.”

I’d never seen an apartment like his. A zimmer was a wooden cabin in the northern mountains, where parents took their children for vacation. It was rustic and cosy, evoking fond memories of climbing up to the loft to go to bed.

Such was Eliav’s apartment.

We settled on his couch. Pokémon grinned around him as he got high and smiled deliriously, as if he had no cares.

Since my social circle lacked drugs, to me he seemed tired and indifferent. I also noticed how, after skipping a beat when texting, my heart wasn’t thumping now.

“I’m a bit nervous,” I said. This was all it took for me to grow comfortable around him.

“Now I’m the one embarrassed,” he said. “You look better in real life.”

He motioned me to cuddle him.

I did so tensely. I hadn’t expected anything to happen tonight. All I wanted was to have a conversation.

“How embarrassed are you, from one to ten?” he asked.

“Eight hundred,” I said.

Then my body relaxed.

He kissed well. A bit too teethy. But he proved huggable; we tickled each other.

Unlike most Middle Easterners, his body was hairless. His backside was the tastiest thing on Earth.

“No one’s loved my ass as much as you do,” he moaned in astonishment, and clasped a Pokémon pillow. “Ah… I feel like Charmander…”

After an hour of intense diving, I recalled that he had a penis.

“What is that?” I flinched. It was as long and thick as a forearm.

“Most guys only focus on it,” he shrugged.

I couldn’t believe it. The most endowed man in Israel, and quite possibly in the world, was the third person I’d slept with.

We moved to his recording studio to play some instruments. It was a sealed room with professional equipment for production of music.

“You really exceeded my expectations,” he said.

“I’d rather do that than disappoint.”

He smiled. “You’re so sexy.”

I couldn’t hide my disbelief. I knew that I had a ‘good boy’ face. Yet I’d lost control as soon as our clothes had come off, until we were both grunting.

When he opened up to me, I grew too limp to go in.

Great.

I couldn’t understand what was happening. He turned me on – I turned him on – and still, my joystick quit playing.

It took several attempts, and a lot of self-hatred. When our bodies finally united, he moaned in pleasure, while I didn’t feel anything.

“It happens a lot with condoms,” he said, after venom had erupted from his anaconda all over his face. I recalled how my best friend’s boyfriend climaxed only during bareback.

The lube we used didn’t help. Eliav’s mattress being on the loft made me bump my head. We returned downstairs, where he blew my trumpet. I found myself imagining someone hotter than him, until I blared for the first time in five weeks.

I couldn’t move after this. He wanted round three, because his first two rounds were preliminary. Four hours had gone by, and I grew too tired to proceed.

“I want you inside me so much that I’m about to rape you,” he said.

It had been months since his last time.

“I barely meet anyone,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

“Maybe because of the way I look?” he wondered aloud. “Or because I’m picky. Tonight was fun, but I’m not satisfied,” he continued. “My ex blew me every day after work, and made me cum five times.”

“I’d rather leave some for next time,” I mumbled in exhaustion.

He walked me outside and gave me a bear hug.

“How tall are you?” he asked after squeezing me hard.

“182 centimetres,” I said.

“I’m 180,” he said, visibly jealous.

I almost fell asleep behind the wheel. The Eliav I’d met wasn’t the Eliav I’d pictured. But I still fancied him.

The next day, Harel apologized for ghosting me in the past few weeks, and invited me again. I felt bad saying no, and pushed myself to his apartment.

“This is the first time someone’s watched me shower,” he chuckled nervously.

He was a shy and bi-curious psychology major who needed an emotional connection to get physical. His skin was darker than Eliav’s. His voice was as soft as an angel’s, while his bodybuilding physique was a treat. He was hairy, and had an ass like two scoops of ice cream.

Yet he reeked off cigarettes, and disappointed me down there. I found myself thinking about Eliav, and realized that guys who looked like underwear models weren’t as huggable.

“I had fun meeting you,” I almost texted Eliav when I returned home. “I want to get to know you.”

It was the first time in my life where I began to understand what the fuss was about. But I feared Eliav’s reaction, and continued instead our conversation about Pokémon, to keep things light. He stopped texting me.

*

A week passed. I settled in my friend’s apartment, and left soon after for a date.

I regretted it from the first moment. This new guy was terribly nondescript, with no sense of humour and conversation skills. Every sentence felt forced and awkward. Why had he messaged me again and again for weeks?

He wanted to fornicate. I felt filthy. But at least this time, I felt something.

It was a degrading ending, rather than happy. I couldn’t bear to touch him. Anonymous sex devoid of chemistry was not for me.

Feeling empty, I returned to my friend’s apartment, and texted the only person on my mind.

Eliav did not appreciate it when I complimented his skills in bed. It made him feel like a piece of meat.

I groaned in anger. Oh, the irony.

“I want to see you again,” I said, to show that I took him seriously.

“What for?”

“To get to know you,” I almost said, and recalled that he didn’t. “Whatever you want,” I replied instead.

“I don’t want to meet again,” he said. “As far as I remember, the sex wasn’t great.”

I explained that he was special. He said that we had no connection.

“I don’t want to date a fuckboy,” he added. “Delete my number.”

That was the end of it.

We wished each other good luck. I sank in my friend’s sofa, unable to eat or think. Night fell on my first day of freedom in Tel Aviv.

The Open Relationship Avenger and Nerd

On my second day, I didn’t leave the couch.

I lay down and stared into space. I felt sad, upset, angry, and empty. Yet I couldn’t cry.

The last point bothered me immensely. Was my heart not broken?

Maybe I only liked Eliav, but wasn’t in love with him. Or maybe he was an asshole who wasn’t worth the tears.

All I knew was, this was what Jane Austen had written in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth and Mr Darcy’s first impression of each other contradicted their real-life personas. Once they got to know each other, they fell in love with their good sides, while remaining cognizant of the bad. Akin to Emma and Mr Knightley from Austen’s Emma.

If true love existed, surely it would unfold like that.

I felt stuck in the first half of the novel, where Elizabeth refused to meet the haughty Mr Darcy. The latter managed to redeem his character through chance encounters with her; yet I would never get to magically run into Eliav, and redeem myself.

I could have grown to like the real him. But would he ever like the real me?

It killed me more than anything, his impression of me. I felt sorry for my silly moments around him.

Then I began to share his lack of interest. If this was how he acted, I craved none of it. But I longed to end things in a mature and friendly way. 

And to think that this was the first time in my life where I’d tried to open up and live in the moment.

I sighed and curled up on the couch. I didn’t talk to anyone or eat anything.

He was the first gay guy I was obsessed with. But I couldn’t declare him my first disappointment. The Eliav I had liked in my head was not the Eliav I had encountered.

At least I got to experience something like this.

Then it hit me. If I was capable of liking someone, especially from the first moment, perhaps love could pop up in my future.

For a lifelong aromantic, this was mind-blowing.

Suddenly, a monogamous relationship struck me as delightfully romantic. Telling someone, “I love you so much that I’d give up on everyone just to be with you…” How beautiful it must be!

Yet it was hard to know how to act around someone you liked. With Eliav, I’d found myself saying the opposite of what I’d been meaning. The least I could do now was learn from my mistake.

Perhaps someday I would be torn between travelling the world, or settling down with someone special. This would be a fine problem – meeting someone you couldn’t live without. I wondered if it would ever happen to me.

*

On the third day, I felt a bit better. I wrote a sad and angry break-up song.

By day four, I was ready to move on.

I chatted with a masculine guy who turned out to be in an open relationship. His boyfriend was a bottom, like him. I sent him a funny meme about two bottoms in a relationship who couldn’t dip their pen in the other’s inkwell.

“I see you’re looking for trouble,” he replied. “You’ll pay for this.”

Before I knew it, he was threatening to out me to my family.

I grew anxious. Was he seriously that offended by a meme?

Still, he didn’t know my family. So there was no cause for concern.

Then he threatened to post my pictures online. But there was nothing shameful about them.

Finally, he tried to find out my address and phone number. I didn’t divulge anything.

Over the next few days, whenever I opened Grindr, he spammed me with hateful messages, vowing revenge. Then, one by one, masc4masc profiles began to scam me.

Handsome and muscular guys messaged me in overly excited tones. They tried to lure me into their alleged WhatsApp group, and get my phone number.

I knew these were catfish accounts belonging to the vindictive bottom. None of these alpha fags would even glance at me. And reverse image search showed that one of them even used pictures of a porn star.

Still, such doxing attempts became so frequent, that I grew wary of every guy who messaged me.

Suddenly, gay dating became a menace.

I couldn’t leave the couch again or talk to anyone, only this time, it was out of fear. Who was an avenger, and who genuinely wanted me? Whose picture was real, and whose was fake?

The alphabet army was supposed to fight for its marginalized members, not against.

I decided to take a break from the apps, and, ironically enough, wished to be forgotten.

Even though this was my vacation, I didn’t do much. I cooked, wrote, and watered my friend’s plants.

Then I returned to dating with Mor, an average-looking guy who gushed with me over Japan and Harry Potter.

He was cute, albeit bland. His boyfriend was temporarily residing overseas. They had opened their relationship for this long-distance period, so I became Mor’s first new guy in three years.

Likewise, he was the first non-single I’d gone out with.

Had he picked me because I identified as aromantic? I wondered, as we covered every possible topic of conversation. When it was time to make a move, I felt awkward. How did two people go from talking to kissing? 

Especially when one wasn’t into the other. Mor didn’t turn me on. I didn’t feel anything around him.

Still, once we got handsy, I grew comfortable. One thing led to another, until we breathed into each other’s mouths as I touched his rear while he stroked me. It felt so intimate, that I climaxed without uttering a sound.

The Bi-Curious Guy Who Fell in Love at First Sight

The following day, I met Ziv.

He was a twenty-three-year-old who had just opened a dating profile. Three years ago, he’d developed an attraction to the same sex, and got into pegging. Now, his girlfriend of five years – the only person he’d been with – had agreed to open their relationship, and let him experiment with the same sex.

He towered above me, an overweight yet gentle giant who wore glasses and had a short beard. From the moment we started talking, our conversation flowed endlessly.

Mutual hobbies didn’t cut it. We both loved philosophy, and discussed love, loneliness, and death. I related to his clinical depression and first-time jitters.

Yet I wasn’t attracted to him.

I didn’t want the first base. He led us to the third. Oral, anal – he wanted it all, right away.

“I’m too nervous, though,” he said, to my relief. His hands were sweating profusely.

I suggested sticking to talking.

“I’m in love with you,” he suddenly said.

I blinked at him in disbelief. He stared at me in utmost sincerity.

We’d known each other for less than two days. We’d already delved into the deepest, most intimate subjects – but still. What did love have got to do with it?

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “I keep fantasizing about you. You’re handsome and sexy.”

The last part was even harder for me to take seriously.

He told me that he’d fallen in love with his girlfriend in one hour, when they’d met at eighteen. She was the one, the only one.

Perhaps love at first sight actually existed.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he said.

I didn’t know how to react.

He sought a sexual and emotional connection with me. Whereas I – I began to feel like Eliav. 

“Maybe you should see other guys first, to see how it feels like,” I said.

“You have a suspicious look in your eyes,” he said.

He had an offended look in his.

“I just find it hard to believe that you’re already in love with me,” I said.

The truth was, none of the guys I’d seen had made my palms sweat. I envied Ziv.

I even envied Harel and Mor for leaking copious amounts of pre-cum in my presence. Because I longed to meet someone I shared chemistry with. But I knew it would never happen. I didn’t deserve it.

*

A few days later, I gave Ziv another chance.

We’d agreed to meet just for a conversation. It grew intimate, until he recounted his weekend to me.

Two days after our initial encounter, a new guy had penetrated him.

Ziv minced words in spite of my curiosity. He didn’t mention his alleged feelings for me.

Had he moved on? I wondered, when he started cuddling me. After a minute, however, he retreated to the other side of the sofa.

Perhaps it pained him to touch me, since I didn’t want to sleep with him. I couldn’t tell. He seemed to hold himself back, verbally and physically. I left his apartment feeling bad for hurting him.

The Closeted Daddy Who Bled from His Ass

On my last day of freedom, I rushed to the ER.

It happened after I’d met Ehud, a divorced father. His looks had certainly made me overlook that, once he had messaged me.

“You’re sexy,” he’d said.

I’d assumed this was a prank. He had cropped hair, blue eyes, and the body of a quarterback who had played twenty years ago in university. But it was his voice that proved his secret weapon: the deepest bass, clear and articulate, with the flair of a radio host who knew that every syllable he uttered dropped panties.

I was practically melting when he opened YouTube and showed me a song he’d recorded. I stared transfixed at the screen as he touched me and leaned for a kiss.

Men with experience knew what buttons to press, I thought, losing myself in his machinery. He kissed badly, but smelled clean and musky.

We continued from his couch to his bedroom. His suburban home was big and tasteful.

Likewise, his hands were strong and gentle. His skin was smooth and tanned. Mine looked worse; you couldn’t find a blemish on his figure.

I savoured this refined glass of wine. It tasted better than some younger drinks. His penis was long yet thin, with a sideward twist.

Then I inserted a finger into his anus. It had been a few days since I’d cut my nails. When we levelled up to two fingers, I began to thrust ferociously. He moaned in pleasure.

After a minute, my fingers slipped out with blood on them.

“What?” he looked back in surprise. “It hurt a little, but not that much.”

The bleeding was minor. Yet I hadn’t known it could happen.

“I’ve been having sex for twenty-five years,” he said. “This has never occurred to me.”

Red with embarrassment, I went to wash my hands.

“It’s okay,” he said.

He kept calming me with his low voice. We were both cautious when it came to sexual health, so I wasn’t worried. I simply felt bad for causing him pain.

Needless to say, his restaurant had closed for business.

We resorted to our mouths to make it to dessert. I left before his son returned home. Then I noticed an old cut on my finger, and wondered if Ehud’s blood had touched it. A nurse from the emergency line said there was no cause for concern, unless I had open gashes.

The next day, I went to my general practitioner: a young and arrestingly handsome doctor, who happened to specialize in HIV.

“The chance of infection is miniscule,” he said. “But you should get tested and buy PreP, in case it happens again.”

I went to bed feeling reassured. When I woke today, the last day before my family returned from their overseas trip, my GP called and urged me to do a rapid HIV test at a hospital, effective up to three days from the moment of exposure.

Two and a half days had already passed. Panic-stricken, I drove to the ER, and waited in line.

“Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” my childhood friend said on the phone. “Even girls.”

“You broke our record for shortest time between admission and release,” the ER said after an hour and fifteen minutes. The nurse and doctor didn’t understand why my GP had sent me, claiming there was no need for a test.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and learned my lesson. Always cut my nails.

“I had a lot of fun with you,” Ehud texted. But my freedom was over.

Back in the closet, I drew two conclusions from the past two weeks. Men were trash; and nothing in my life went according to plan.

Better off without Israeli gays, I decided. None of them had made me feel anything.

*

Life returned to normal.

“What’s gonna come out of you?” my grandma complained during my weekly visits. The straight-A student who could achieve anything he wanted – the favourite grandchild, favourite cousin, smartest child – was stuck at home with no prospects, and a crappy job.

My twin brother, who had skipped school and barely passed half of his subjects, already had a high salary, a serious relationship, and his own apartment. My twin sister was about to go to med school, and achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a doctor.

I was the last person to foresee my failure. But my family seemed shocked as well. They’d never believed in my future as a writer, or understood why I was forgoing other well-paying professions.

Unable to afford rent in one of the top five most expensive countries in the world, let alone a same-sex date in a religious state, I returned to my routine as a loner who spent his free time writing fiction.

“When will you give up?” my grandma pressed.

“When I turn one hundred,” I said.

“We wish you good luck in all your endeavours,” my rich aunt and uncle smiled with pity, using a sweet, fake tone worthy of Dolores Umbridge.

My childhood dream of visiting Japan was the only thing that kept me going. I would re-invent myself there, and befriend people who wouldn’t judge me.

So I continued to save money, until the day finally came.

When I boarded the plane, I wondered if I’d return home afterward; if I’d return anywhere. I would have nothing to live for, after this trip.

Yet even my itinerary didn’t go as planned. After a year of travelling, I found myself in Taiwan, where I dated a local guy who had relatives in my country of origin.

“How would you describe Israel?” I asked, curious to hear an outsider’s perspective.

“Intense,” he said. “Everything there is intense.”

The gay scene felt like a war zone, he explained. Israelis were militant to the core.

By the time I left Taiwan, I had experienced love. Not only that – every person who’d captivated my heart during my trip was love at first sight.

All it had taken was for me to leave Israel, and meet people from backgrounds completely different to mine.

In the end, a bi-curious Taiwanese who had picked me as his first guy made me go farther with him than I’d gone with anyone, rush to the ER the day before my flight to Israel, and take PreP for a month.

I wrote this chapter on the plane from Tokyo to Tel Aviv, forced to sacrifice my winter break from school in Japan on missile alarms; the wedding of my childhood friend, who was no longer there for me; and daily fights with my family, who disliked the fact that I wasn’t heterosexual. When I returned to the local gay scene, I discovered that it hadn’t changed.