Lebanese Mafia Mountain with a Twist of Gay

One of the most memorable evenings I spent in late December 2009 was the night we went to the mountains for a 'traditional' night of Lebanese food, singing and dancing; a delightful and beautiful location an hours' drive from the city.
As our party, consisting two couples, a cousin and a friend, settled down to eat, drink and chat, I cast an inquisitive eye around the narrow balcony room with its arched openings and panelled picture windows and tuned in to the conversations on my table; all conducted in Lebanese-Arabic. Odd words and phrases were understandable to me but despite the abundance of food and beer I began to feel excluded and bored. Not for long, however.

In Beirut it is impossible to be bored for more than a few moments; such is nature of the city; stuffed full of incongruity, eccentricity, impossible contrasts and a healthy amount of iniquity.

Like anyone else who has never visited the city, my imagination was full of images of this small area of the Middle East as being strict, stern, war-torn and ruined. My surprise and delight on first landing was tempered by one of extreme shock that Beirut was a modern, vibrant city with an over-active night life and a very lax attitude towards any kind of rules and regulations, be they tedious traffic laws, all the way through to proper religious observance. The oft used phrase, "Everything is allowed . . . after midnight," proved to be true. By day, the citizens conducted themselves with due consideration and decorum but come the night, mischief and naughtiness abounded. As such, it is always interesting to observe the people in any location and I tend to do so whenever an opportunity affords itself.
One of the most fascinating pastimes that a visitor can engage in is Lebanese woman watching; as a breed, they are utterly unbelievable creatures. I don't think I have seen a Lebanese woman under the age of seventy five in public without having first used a full armory of beauty products and preparations. Nails must be long and garishly glossed, hair is always long, styled and sprayed to perfection, clothing, regardless of age, taste or figure will be tight fitting and flirtatious, make-up should be plentiful and colourful and a plethora of accessories are obligatory. The women, I have noticed, dance quite gently in case their make-up slips. It was exactly these kinds of women who were sharing the balcony room that night.
There were more distractions to come. Late in the evening a group of oiled, suited, pony-tailed men and their 'molls' arrived. In style and bearing they screamed 'We Are Mafia' as they strolled casually but purposefully to their reserved table. The tallest and thinnest Mafia Boss, who sported the classic greased back, black pony-tail, had a chubby, nay, fat, young moll, squeezed into a over-tight shiny blue corset top, where all her flesh from waist to chin, moved as one, on his arm. Her abundantly coiffed spiraled ringlets sprang artfully from her head and spilled over her ample bosom at every breath and smile; in short, any vibration, however small, shook her generous frame, and onlookers watched, rapt, at her quivering flesh.
Overfed Mafia Boss Two had a thick jaw and the satisfied expression of a recently sated shark. His protruding eyes and teeth did nothing to belay this impression; merely adding to the amphibious ambiance of his toady presence. His escort seemed rather like his mummy as she was clothed in a rather frumpy frock and spent her time tenderly feeding him little tidbits while, in between mouthfuls, he plied his mouth with both of his own free hands. Interestingly, he never once removed his expertly tailored jacket.

Boss three was short and greasy-haired with a woman who could have been mistaken for a 'lady of the night' such was the thickness and brilliance of her colourful make-up and clashing garments. His face, form and features were so instantly forgettable that he was clearly the man who did the dirty work; his girlfriend chosen, perhaps, to make up for this lack of presence?

After twenty minutes of avid staring my attention was ripped away by the sudden high-pitched wailing of the Lebanese-Arabic singer who sported a flat back to his head and a tight-buttocked, flouncing prance as he made his way to the performance spot. His singing was soulful and familiar to most and the balcony was soon alive with tipsy Lebanese singing and clapping along to every chorus.

The Lebanese mafia decided it was time to dance and they rose en masse, swaying their hips and waving their arms; each duo gracefully carving out their own romantic story.

By this time latecomers had arrived and the balcony was now brimming with a bevy of bending dancers weaving their way carefully around each other in elegant movement. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a shimmy and turned my head to observe the campest man I have ever seen, outside of a gay cabaret, wiggling, jiggling, shimmying breast and buttocks with an expression of such abundant pleasure it was hard not to stare at every nuance of his performance. In a collared T shirt slashed almost to the waist, he flung himself up from his seat time and again, clearly unable to contain his passion, and launched, Rudolph Valentino-esque onto the floor. With head held high and proud, back; ram-rod straight he nimbly abaresqued and flounced; flitting, fey as a butterfly from flower to flower on his journey into ecstasy. His male-companion, often glanced long-sufferingly across at his lovers gay jaunt with an expression that confessed something slightly uncomfortable was lodged up his arse as he didn't once smile but oozed disapproval as if it were in short supply. Yet each time, our hero stepped out with unconcerned abandon, head to one side as his body swiveled; snapping his head smartly around to catch up before again indulging his shimmy, shimmy, flounce and turn.