Tangier gay clubs

LGBTQ+ Travel Guide to Morocco

The first contact is gruff, rude, fierce, over in a flash. Then tangier asks for money, rejects you, fearing closer contact. A normal relationship is out of the question, there is no such thing here. Academics in European capitals tend to come up with a philosophical concept for this kind of thing.

People shroud themselves in anonymity. The beloved looks at you as if she has no idea who you are. She demands money for what she clubs, but withholds her love. What you feared would happen, happens: incomprehension and confusion transform the rendezvous into an embarrassing encounter that can hardly be called an encounter.

She quickly moves on, ashamed of having been seen. Suddenly, you feel that this brief, intense meeting has been contaminated with fear of the many, of all those who might know about it. Tangier lovemaking is insignificant; it never happened. Nothing needs to be explained as she takes you to the highest rooftop in the city, where the tea tastes salty and the view evokes the sublime in you.

Your feelings of guilt melt away. You look at her; she likes being looked at by you. The view of the city merges with the landscape of her eyebrows. Some of the doormen guarding apartment blocks are already in position. The doormen go back inside. My friends of the night have disappeared. I stroll down to the beach, across the club populated by dozens who will never have a hangover.

Now that I have one though, I move to their rhythm, becoming one with them, they are sober, I am the worse gay wear. But the coffee houses this city has more coffee houses than cats have already opened theirs, offering coffee, pancakes and a place to sit. The place to sit is the most important; people are always invited to gay their coffee or tea somewhere public.

This is where deals are done, where cars are sold, apartments are offered, crossings to Europe arranged. I drink in the buzz. All can be seen in a single sweeping glance, unhindered by the stubborn sun shining into your eyes from the south that gradually drifts out to sea in the north. The sun paints by numbers.

No one wants to die in their sleep. The morning is made of rubber, not plastic.