There is something vaguely disconcerting, disturbing even, about one’s first encounter with gay men having sex.
This I discovered as I walked up Sheinkin, early on Saturday evening, blissfully lost in a sense of well-being from Leeds United having just defeated Championship leaders, Queens Park Rangers, and occupying an automatic promotion spot for the first time this season.
I was shaken out of my reverie, however, by violent grunts and repeated exclamations of the “f” word (my mother insists on vetting these posts) from a first floor apartment on the other side of the street.
I looked up – a knee jerk, you understand – to see . . . well, never mind. But I could see: two males, through the only half-closed double doors from the bedroom to the balcony. And I recoiled, just like I do when witnessing a stray run under the wheels of an oncoming car.
As described in a recent post, living in the centre of Tel Aviv makes any kind of privacy nigh on impossible, with all of us learning far too much about the habits and proclivities of our neighbours . . .
An unknown (I live in hope) female inhabitant of the building opposite ours makes such a racket in the act of copulation – usually on Shabbos “mitzvah” afternoons (cf. our aforementioned friends, on motzei Shabbos, “lehavdil bein kodesh . . . ,” some may suggest) – that I almost feel that I should applaud from my window at the climax of each gusty performance (which can run to over two hours) or, at least, hold up one of those figure skating marking boards: “9.9, 9.9, . . .” Anyhow, eat yer heart out, Sally Albright!
I do tend to think of myself as reasonably broad-minded, these days, especially in view of a somewhat sheltered childhood and youth in the ‘ghettos’ of Chendon and Golders Green (including sharing the classrooms of my primary and secondary ‘educational’ establishments with melchett mike’s resident gay basher).
But I could not help but wonder, on Saturday evening, whether my instinctive distaste for the scene I had just witnessed – as opposed to my fascination with the ever-titillating and mysterious Melchett “Mitzvah Girl” – makes me, even in some small way, a homophobe (only in relation to gay males, that is . . . indeed, had I chanced upon two women doing whatever they do – and there is no shortage of that, either, in Tel Aviv – my pace would, no doubt, have slowed rather than quickened, facilitating careful assessment of my optimum vantage point).