On my first night in Lebanon, I checked into a swanky downtown hotel before moving into my apartment. After checking in with the hot receptionist (spoiler alert: we’d hook up later), I decided to dive into Beirut’s Grindr scene to sample the city’s products. Beirut, the city of a thousand mysteries, was experiencing a surge in escorts thanks to the economic crisis. “Hell no, I am not going to donate to the economic collapse by paying for sex.” It was as if every muscular, macho man had turned into a buff entrepreneur with a Grindr profile. I mean, who knew that an economic downturn would turn Lebanon into a TOP factory?

James Bond is on Grindr!
As I scanned through Grindr, I noticed that Beirut’s online scene had more secrecy than a James Bond film. Profile pictures were a bizarre combination of body parts, jungle cats, and flowers. It was like a strange garden filled with lions and tigers, and biceps, oh my!

Block the Bottoms, Ignore the Versatiles
Blocking the bottoms and kind of ignoring the versatiles, I found a few good “top” men. After chatting with some potential subjects for my article series, I settled in for the night, embracing my inner Casanova as I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, I hit the hotel gym, eager to flex my muscles and attract some attention.

Cupid’s punch in the gut
It was a warm morning in the gym, where the AC had given up, and the scent of sweat and desperation hung in the air. That’s when I spotted him – the French guy with tousled hair, a chiseled jawline, and a physique that would make Michelangelo blush. Our eyes met, and it was as if Cupid had just punched me in the gut.

He’s gay!
We struck up a conversation with my icebreaker question, “How is your workout going?” Before I knew it, we had planned a date for that very evening. Waiting for our date and after some Instagram sleuthing, I discovered a treasure trove of the French guy’s topless pics and snaps with other men. He was definitely gay, and he’s not closeted. Bingo!

Benjamin Franklin would have raised an eyebrow.
We met at the hotel lobby bar, where we were swept up in a whirlwind of tantalizing Lebanese cuisine, intoxicating local drinks (my gin basil, of course), and chemistry so electric that even Benjamin Franklin would have raised an eyebrow.

Eiffel Tower’s Erection
Our night ended with a passionate rendezvous back in my hotel room. Let’s just say that the Eiffel Tower wasn’t the only thing standing tall that night. Our French Casanova was a verified Top, and the night was filled with rough foreplay, steamy embraces, and a tangle of limbs that would make even the Kama Sutra blush.

A Thousand Miles Away You Can Play
But as they say, all good things must come to an end. After our second date, the French man had to go back to France. He often comes to Lebanon, so that was not an issue. I can do a long-distance relationship. After all, isn’t there a saying that goes: “A thousand miles away, you can play?”. Well, to my luck, he is over 2500 miles away.

Enter the Wife.
It was at the airport that he sent me the message that would change everything: “Please text me only during business hours,” it read, “My wife might see the texts.” Wife?! I was as shocked as a mime performing in a library.” Wife? Seriously? Wasn’t that something you’d mention before diving headfirst into a romantic liaison?

Business Hours
From then on, our secret affair became a bizarre mix of passion and rules. He’d write me emails and messages about his clandestine gay life, confessing that I was the best sex he’d ever had. Apparently, my ability to shift from submissive to alpha bottom drove him wild. But there was a catch – I could only respond to his heartfelt missives during business hours when his wife was away.

Enter The Son. The Daughter. The Other Daughter.
As it turned out, my French fling had a penchant for writing love letters while his family slept. I say family because in some emails, he does mention his son (who was coughing loudly while he wrote one of the many emails), his daughter (who he had to tuck in a few times), and his other daughter (who he had to wake up early the next day to take her to school). In a few days, I knew everything about this guy. It was a bizarre mix of heartwarming and heartbreaking, like watching the most twisted French noir film while eating popcorn and sobbing. Then, hold my glass of gin basil, he dropped the L word a mere six days after we met.

Clingy
If I failed to respond, he’d grow upset and clingy, his messages flooding my inbox like the Seine River during a storm. He’d reminisce about the incredible sex we had, describing it in such detail that it would put the Marquis de Sade to shame. Ah yes, our two sexcapades were truly unforgettable, from the way he’d whisper sweet French nothings in my ear to the Eiffel Tower of passion we built together in the sheets. We had more positions than the Parisian Metro map, and I’ll be the first to admit that oui, oui, oui, it was absolutely amazing!

God Bless America
It was time to consult my American friends living in Beirut: wise young Danielle, elegant Melanie, sarcastic Roy, and his calm, kind boyfriend Ronald, who always had the best jokes. As I spilled the sordid details of my French affair, they weighed in with their opinions.

The Wise Friends
Danielle, the sage beyond her years, warned me about the dangers of messy situations. “You don’t want to get caught in the crossfire of someone else’s drama,” she advised. Melanie, ever the fashionable intellectual, shook her head in disapproval. “You deserve so much better,” she insisted, then adding: “I knew he was married.”

Roy and Ronald
Roy, with his biting wit, scoffed at the idea of keeping the Frenchman in my life. “I bet he schedules his orgasms during business hours, too!” he snarked. Ronald, quiet and composed, cracked a joke about the French guy: “At least he didn’t make you sing ‘La Vie en Rose’ while riding him like a Tour de France champion!”

The Red Light District
As I mulled over their advice, it dawned on me that Danielle and Melanie hit the nail on the head – I didn’t need to be drowning in this melodramatic quicksand. Roy’s sarcasm and Ronald’s humor illuminated the ridiculousness of the situation, like a neon sign in the red light district. The French guy was getting more possessive than a Parisian pastry chef guarding his secret croissant recipe, and I knew it was time to bid adieu to our steamy affair.

Toe-curling Sex
With a heart heavier than a sumo wrestler after an all-you-can-eat buffet, I sent him a final message, putting the kibosh on our scandalous rendezvous. I knew I had to shield my sanity and my heart, even if it meant bidding farewell to one of the most earth-shattering, mind-bending, toe-curling sex I’d ever experienced.

Stay tuned for what’s next!
Little did I know that my search for Prince Charming would take me on a wild ride, complete with a closeted Lebanese guy who had a proposition weirder than a platypus riding a unicycle. But that, my dear reader, is a tantalizing tale for another time.

Hold onto your hats for the upcoming sequel: Hide and Seek: The Closeted Lebanese Lover – a story that’s sure to have you gripping the edge of your seat!