How I learnt to stop worrying and love the diversions

Route No. 1 - Bus / Cairo (Touched by a stranger on the bus)

The bus jolts through the morning traffic. Heat, perfume, diesel, the endless honking of car horns. We stand opposite each other in the narrow aisle between the seats, squeezed between bags and elbows. His hand hangs casually near his belt, almost as if it were resting there. When the driver brakes, the back of his hand touches my crotch. It stays there. Not a bump, not a rub, but a touch that could be chance, could be art. I keep my eyes fixed on the window and pretend to count the stops. The glass throws back my reflection, illegible. Around us, the city babbles, blind and loud.

Vigilance protects me. Vigilance opens the gate.

I have learnt to walk with two heads: one for roads and timetables, one for signals. Signals like eyes that linger, a shift in weight, a fleeting touch in the dark space between bodies. You never know which is danger, which is an invitation. You only know how to stand still, how to breathe without giving anything away.

Once, years ago, I was followed home from school. Footsteps behind me, sure and steady. I turned corners to put him to the test; he turned too. Fear, then something else. The thrill of being noticed, desired, followed. Since then, I have walked with both senses alert: one for the risk, one for the opportunity.

The bus slows down near the bridge. He gets off without turning round. I wait another stop and try to calm down. My body doesn't listen to me. I hold my bag in front of me, hide my bulge and pretend to look at my mobile phone. When I finally get off, the air hits me like a secret I can't hide. I walk towards the station, the tingling under my skin still palpable.

Route no. 2 - Railway station / Cairo

The air vibrates at Ramses station. Loudspeakers scream numbers that mean nothing to me. People rush in all directions. I move with them, carried by noise and momentum. No ticket in my pocket; my destination is not written on any board.

The toilets are half-flooded, neon-lit and anonymous. I stand at the washbasin for longer than necessary and watch in the mirror as men walk past behind me. Quick glances, even quicker exits. Every room here has a secret purpose. I linger, then go out again and follow the flow to the platforms.

I walk on, past the last sign, past the guards, down the ramp where the tracks begin. The light becomes sparser. Metal, dust and the smell of engine oil. Abandoned carriages slumber in the darkness, their windows broken, their doors half open. Shapes move inside. Shadows that can be recognised by their breathing. Words lose their meaning here. A cough, a cigarette lit in the dark, a step closer: that is language enough.

A hand flits past my bag, my mobile phone disappears, then reappears in my hand before I can even think. Reflex, no courage. The real danger is not the theft. It's being seen, being called by name. We all know what the police could do if they came in now. Fear sharpens everything. The smell of sweat, the spark of touch, the hunger that pretends to be love.

Somewhere nearby, a train squeals, a sound like an angry crowd descending. I close my eyes. The vibration hums through my ribs, turning fear into rhythm. When I open them, the darkness feels wider, almost safe. I start walking again, following the tracks towards a different kind of night.

Path no. 3 - Tiergarten / Berlin (Guardian Angel of the Bushes)

We left the meeting together, the kind where you sit in a circle and talk politely about heavy topics. The sun was already setting and the sky was turning that soft Berlin purple that makes everything seem nostalgic before it's even happened. He suggested a walk, nothing dramatic, just: „Come on, I'll show you something.“ By the time we reached the zoo, the light had almost disappeared. Trees blurred into silhouettes. Paths blurred. I don't have a sense of direction yet, but I memorised the angle of the shimmering angel on the Victory Column as it cut through the dusky sky.

That will help me find the place. Every cruising venue needs a guardian angel. He spoke Arabic, the way people do when they assume you need the comfort of that language. We weren't close, didn't even know each other, but he led the way like someone who is used to leading the way. „This place saved me,“ he said. „I met my German husband here.“ He pointed to a group of trees as if it were a historical site. „Right there. That's where it all started.“ He didn't sound sentimental, but matter-of-fact, as if the park had given him exactly what he had asked for.

As we went deeper, men floated back and forth between the branches, appearing and disappearing again as if they belonged to the darkness. One stepped forward, stared straight at me and said: „How much?“ Bluntly, languidly, confidently. I froze. My companion sighed, annoyed for me. „Ignore him,“ he said. „Some people think they can judge you with a look.“

He showed me the places where men were waiting, the little circles of flattened grass, the paths that meandered and led back again, even if you could swear you were going straight ahead. It was an initiation. A simple way of saying: you too can belong here.

When we finally reached the edge of the park, he glanced at his watch and said he had to go. No phone numbers were exchanged. It wasn't necessary. Nevertheless, something had changed. For the first time since my arrival, Berlin no longer felt impossible to navigate.

Way No. 4 - lab.oratory / Berlin - Sexclub/West Germany: How I become a number and a compliment

The lab.oratory is located in a corner of Berlin that nobody reaches by chance. You don't pass it on the way to another destination. You go there because you want to, because a certain kind of night demands it. I avoided it for years. I reckoned with grabby hands. I expected to feel like I was lying on an examination table being scrutinised. But one evening I finally turned the corner. Alone. With less adrenaline and more anticipation. This isn't a park, and nothing was for free.

We paid to cross the threshold. We handed our clothes to a man who threw them into thin plastic bags that looked like rubbish. A number was written on my arm in thick black ink, crude and temporary. I felt marked, catalogued, briefly placed in a cycle whose rules I didn't quite understand. Rules never kissed me. But breaking them gave me a thrill.

The lighting was dark red, blurring contours and making eyes glow. Somewhere techno was blaring. I wondered why no one was dancing; instead, men were moving in slow circles, drifting back and forth between the rooms, scrutinising each doorway like a checkpoint. Glances flashed and disappeared. Some flitted past me as if I wasn't part of their equation. Others lingered too long, weighing me up, categorising me and trying to fit me into a category they knew.

One man smiled and said, „Nice and hairy.“ Here's a compliment. A small, harmless thing. Where I come from, hairiness never meant charm. It meant ordinary, expected. Here it meant masculine, and masculine, when read on someone like me, carried its own mythology. Virile. Strong. Rough around the edges. I didn't correct him. I let the compliment stand. I realised that hair is my erotic capital in Berlin.

I stayed longer than planned. Two-for-one drinks softened the edges, softened the calculations, made the circuits feel warmer. The Lab didn't embrace me, but it didn't exclude me either. It was a world built on movement, loops, glances, transactions. For one night, I let myself in.

Route No. 5 - Hasenheide / Berlin

The Hasenheide has always made sense to me. Perhaps because roaming around here is not a destination, but a way of getting around. A way of paying attention. I walk through the main gate and let my feet choose the direction. The paths branch out, narrow, disappear and then widen again, as if offering opportunities that the city denies elsewhere. I breathe deeper here. They say cruising is anonymous, but it's also meditative. The senses are sharpened. Every rustle, every shift in weight, every pause behind a tree becomes a small question. A possibility. The park teaches you to read without words. It is one of the few places where desire follows no rules. No profile texts, no filters, no categories. Just bodies that discover each other by chance, out of curiosity, out of instinct. It feels almost anarchic. Desire, open, redistributed, without licence.

During the pandemic, these paths became dance floors overnight. Music hidden in rucksacks, strangers swaying in the dark, the city pretending not to notice. While the clubs remained closed, the queers kept moving, inventing joy in the undergrowth. The newspapers called it a danger to the public. Moral panic blossomed faster than spring grass. But the police never understood that we weren't breaking any order. We were building a new one.

On this grey day, I see a figure standing half in the shade, half in the light. A nod. A pause. We move towards each other as if we had done this before in another life. No questions, no names. Just warmth, breath, pressure, my heart beating against his ribs. The orgasm comes quietly, like a leaf sliding down a branch. We slowly pull away from each other. He smiles, gently. I whisper „Goodbye“. He whispers it back.

Every lover was just passing through. Each passage left behind a seed.

I walk on until the trees thin out and the city returns. My breathing slows down. My body feels lighter, not because something has happened, but because it could have happened. Cruising is not just sex. It's entering a place where desire doesn't apologise. A place where you move differently, think differently, breathe differently. I step out of the gate with that rhythm still inside me.