I remember being one of the few original byproducts of Jachana. The special edition, the limited quantity kind, born and raised there. I was raised by the nuns into submissiveness, trained to labor, and nothing else. You’re a man, men don’t complain, men don’t cry, men work, provide, protect, and are rewarded with marriage, anything else was outlandish, feminine, and derogatory. Jachana was my home, it still is, despite all the ordeals, and the things I endured, home is home. Jonathan, Tanious, and Christy were my childhood friends, my brothers, my wannabe relatives, we’ve decided so when we opened our eyes there, the three of us, barely days old, cast away, thrown into the world with discarded parents, and fiends as legal guardians.

The psychologist that treated us after Jachana said a child weaned without mother’s milk would grow with a lack of emotion, a detachment, and an anemic empathy.

He was right, I had a beast inside, it attacked me from within, made me frenzied, but that man was also wrong, Jon was weaned in the same environment as I had, he was my rival, in sports, in work, and empathy. What I could not feel I felt through him, how he was always the first guy to extend a hand to you on the ground, how quickly he forgot our fights, how quickly he’d forcefully heal the wounds I inflicted on him, he was always there. Till one day we grew up and our family fell apart. Teenagers are the worst kind of humans, blinded, overconfident, always with that feeling of having the world on the tip of your fingers, always with the invulnerability complex.

In Jachana we thought we had it settled, our perilous days taught us all we needed to know, we foolishly assumed we could sneak out, touch each other freely, cast away the dogma and values instigated in us since birth. We succeeded briefly, we loved the bible, church, and God but we also had other needs to fulfill, to explore, to taste, and we did until Mother Jana was murdered. Her death ushered our demise and left us at the mercy of Nasima and Gabriel.

Through strife our group was sewn together, through austerity we flourished, until the vile raids we had become comrades of war, those grim bonds made us who we are today.

I miss it still, I miss our childhood, I miss the way we were, I can take out the acrid memories from my head like removing pits from a fruit, it is simple for me, it has always been, but sometimes a pit slips into your mouth, and the bitter taste feels like a thousand pits. These burdening moments are the main reason I’ve strived into working and building my future.

My inner beast never left me, but with Christy, he was subdued, that women changed my life, we started our adult lives with nothing but inheritance money, we dug elbow deep, braced the ravaging currents of life and the economy, my insistence on investing the money in a shipping group at the Lebanese port paid off.

It’s been six years, I’ve been swallowing multiple pits daily now, no breaks. Our fairytale ended, I built an enterprise, provided Christy and myself with everything we wanted, and needed, by working twelve hours a day, even through weekends, but now it’s just diminishing returns. We have our eyes set on different goals, I keep trying to provide for her lavish lifestyle, but it’s barely enough.

The gym was busy today, despite being lunchtime, a lot of clings and bangs, so many young guys, and middle-aged women (probably got their husbands to pay for the expensive membership). I’m using my break to train instead of rest. I need to get my body moving, sitting in that chair, and reading a stack of papers was killing me more than my wife was.

I stretched my back, put two more plates on the barbell, and assumed the sumo stance. As I gripped the bar a set of yellow yoga pants passed, it was a bleached blond-haired one, in her early forties, she turned around, her ass was round, decent, firm. I’m so fucking horny. Those new drugs are messing me up, my libido is sky-high, I have trouble working or lifting, even after I jerk off I get horny again in less than an hour. She kept lurking around, impressed with my 600-pound deadlift. Go away, women. Need to focus, pump that energy out of my cock, and back to my training. I just have to think of my wife, the shit she’s pulling like that credit card warning my bank gave me after I got here.

I hissed the air out, braced my back, unrounded my shoulders, my traps popped, the weight went up like paper. Thunnnnk. A loud crash as they went down. More women and skinny boys looked my way.

She wanted a massive Victorian house, I got one, renovated it, we got our furniture from a two-month tour around Europe, we picked up the chandelier from Italy, the plates from France, we even traveled to Iran and found the best quality Persian rugs to fill up the two-story house.

Puff, I breathed out, the barbell levitated, thunk.

Christy wanted a car, the best car, a German vehicle, the most well-engineered piece of machinery a Mother could get, a Porsche Cayenne, I surprised her on our third wedding anniversary. I finished paying up the installments a few years ago.

Puffff, thunk.

The kids were spoiled, as they deserved, just as Christy wanted, she couldn’t wrap her mind around a normal private school, she wanted the best private school in Lebanon, which translated to it being the most expensive, a school where parents pay monthly fees for parking spaces even if their kids used the bus, a school where parents covered a child’s excursions with two thousand dollars per trimester. The excursions construed into ski trips to the Alpes.

Christy asked, I provided, but three years ago, business slowed down, and things have gone south between us. I still provide, but it’s not enough.

Puffff, thunk. The set was done, I crashed at the dumbbell rack, resting, dripping, and yellow yoga pants hovered. I want to take her to the backroom, rip those tight pants, fuck her in the ass as she moans and cries, I picture her whimpering, me pulling that bleached hair like a lead rope on a stubborn mare, breaking her in on my cock.

"Sorry made you wait, I can spot you know." Maher swooped in like the nuns back home, spoiling my fantasy like the ultimate cockblock.

 He smiled at yellow pants, she’s probably in one of his pussy yoga classes.

I nodded at him, took my position, but wanted more fuel.

Christy has an image of life in her head, an image of perfection, a despot bizarre image that would unravel if she didn’t fulfill it. Even at thirty-five she still studies, about to finish her Ph.D., has published more than forty articles in journals and magazines. She blamed me for keeping her on a tight leash, for bogging down her work, bogging down as in getting pregnant. She could have finished the Ph.D. years ago, but I am the devil incarnate for wanting to have a family, for wanting to raise children of my own, for wanting to provide them with a serene, warm environment.

Puffff, thunk.

I compromised, waited years before we had Tommy. After all, she asked me, because she wanted to explore the world, study, so I was a pariah at work, the huge bodybuilder on steroids who shot blanks, who couldn’t get his wife pregnant. Couples in Lebanon get pregnant after marriage pretty quick, which was the tradition, babies were a blessing, they were encouraged, and they brought good fortune with them as they came to the world. I took all of that, I swallowed my honor, pride, and ego for her. I was still willing to do that for her until she wasn’t herself anymore, she morphed into a complete alien.

Puffff, thunk. I was inundating the black floor with sweat, running out of steam. Yellow pants left. Fuck you, Maher. 

"Come on! Beast mode Majd! One more! One more!" Maher’s voice attracted a swarm of water bottle holders, cellphone clickers, and lazy lifters. Their eyes were all on me, dripping in an envy for the last set.

That wayward dream was shared by the both of us, ever since we fell in love around twenty freaking five years ago, but after Jachana, Christy changed, my money changed her, it provided her with an endless fund to funnel through with her relentless need to be the best, to never be what was before, to erase our orphan past. The best at everything, she doesn’t compete with others, she competes with herself, and everyone she knows has to partake in her trek for perfection, you have to elevate yourself to her level, you have to invest every ounce of your mental being or you become nothing in her eyes, and irrelevant buzzing fly who’s only purpose is a nuisance. Christy uses me for my money.

Puffff, thunk.

She has a way of making the entire room stare upon entering, all eyes on her, but when she speaks, she has a way of making everyone feel stupid, never enough, and feeble. There is a reason she doesn’t have any real friends anymore, why our childhood family stays away, why we only see each other on the holidays, but Christy carries on, she always tries to play mediator between all of us thinking we have broken apart, not staying apart, away from her.

Puffffffffffff, thunkkkkkk. I was beaten, I knelt on the floor catching my breath, and Maher got me a towel and cleaned my face.

"Thanks, bro, I’m going to shower and go back to work." I lowered my voice," I’ll pay you next week."

"No worries man," Maher leaned closer to me, his small egghead nearly sniffing my ripeness, "Did you hear anything about Sheikh Nabil?"

"Nothing yet, but if I do I’ll keep you posted."

When he took a left and entered the yoga studio, yellow pants followed him. Lucky bastard.

All those toxic thoughts of Christy stacked, fueled my rage, got me through the workout, but I was at a complete loss of control, the memories of shit she’s done began resurfacing.

A month after Maria was born I cradled her in my arms for hours, after a twelve-hour shift, such a tiny and innocent creature barely thicker than my forearms, screeching her little lungs out way beyond what’s comprehensible for an infant, hard to believe a small thing like that is capable of such volatile deafening screams, her pain shook my 120 kg frame to its core, I wasn’t an intimidating big man when Maria shrieked, I was a child who never had a father, but she did, I was willing to sacrifice a limb to erase her torment, to make sure she never gets to experience that abandoning loneliness I had felt growing, that burdening suck it up orphan man. Christy slept through the whole thing, she had been finishing her Master’s degree presentation the day before. I googled for hours, I watched YouTube videos of mothers placing their babies close to their hearts, mother’s making weird superstitious rituals, every DYI available online, nothing worked, she kept crying her heart out.

I was Mary fucking Poppins and bodybuilder dad for the night until Maria turned red, her head was a cherry tomato, ripe and ready to reap, her mangy cries subsided, and her silky skin was sizzling to my touch. I rushed her to the emergency room, alone with only Tommy sobbing at the sight of his baby sister in my other hand, while my educated, brilliant, feminist wife was in deep REM sleep. It turned out my daughter was teething and her gums had gotten infected, infected with bacteria from sugar, sugar Christy had been giving her to stay quiet as she typed her articles away.

The following day, I added the ludicrous bill of an experienced nanny to my accountant. Another expense, for my tired, and exhausted wife.

After Tanious’ death we stopped pretending, if she’s in her library (which I built for her) I go to the living room, if she’s outside brainstorming and researching, I’m inside. I couldn’t mourn my best friend, she wouldn’t let me, and instead, she prefers to bombard me with questions and interrogations that would make detective Youssef blush. I run away from home, I hide at the gym, me the six foot two man, cowering away from my 115-pound wife. I sneak away from my children from the warden (that’s what her former best friend calls her), take them to a park for an hour or so, a park she has deemed unsanitary with all the sweat and germs, thus it’s off-limits. She allocates time for their "fun", for my time with her, for our "conversations". 

She has a calendar for weekly interactions, daily basic things, we are all put into columns with timestamps and sticky notes, all is put in the confines of her management. Coffee with charity donors 3:35, Yoga class at 3:45, nutritional sustenance 4:00, talk to Yasmine 10 min max, bonding with offspring 15 minutes pre-research, 5 minutes pre-somnolence, sex with Majd 2 minutes 38 seconds.

Detective Youssef came to my offices at the port the very next day after the murder, his square-shaped face half-covered under a beret, his wedding band stuck to his tick fingers, he asked me questions about Tanious, what he did for work for me? How he’s (was) doing money-wise? If he had any enemies, and I lied, plain and simple to the authorities, because Tanious and I were both in this neck-deep, couldn’t afford to draw more attention to our work.

The night Manal called, I tried to console my wife, she was unhinged after she saw all the gravy chemically laced food I had bought but mostly it was about the news of Sheikh Nabil in town, she was rolled into a ball in our bed, in tiny ex Vitro embryo position, I saw the expression on her face, those terror-filled brown eyes, the same ones from Jachana when she was being punished for her "sin."

 When I used to rage, ever since we were young she’d pass her tiny smooth hand across my pecs, that was my Achilles heel, I’d spring back, and the beast within would recede, like a circus pet, I was that obedient to her touch. So I laid next to her, this was an opportunity to rekindle our relationship, an opportunity to make her feel better, I put my hand on her boney shoulders, rubbed them gently, went down to her back, her lats tensed against my touch, her entire body coiled in angst, she made me feel as if my breath against her skin was taint. 

My wife rolled away to the edge of our king-sized bed, a distance of eternity, the international feminine message many disgruntled women gave to their husbands, you’re not getting any tonight. My Christy was light-years away, our sex life diminished.

 Lebanon has strict marital laws funded by your religious sects, so women should uphold their onus, sex was a wife’s duty, but not for my wife. I hear stories of men forcing themselves upon their wives, it’s their prerogative, it’s their right, and marriage is a reward, not a grapple. I won’t do that to Christy, I can’t do that to her, I guess I’m not actually a man by Lebanese standards. I am left with two choices, cheat or settle it the old fashion way.

I stood over the toilet seat that night after she denied me, the way I’ve been for many years now, pathetic, cock in one hand, cellphone in the other, a 35-year-old teenager, browsing hardcore porn, jerking off furiously, tugging the pleasure away from my rage towards her. When I was done I sat in the shower, I basked to the melancholy of the floor, the fringe tiles cold against my thighs, my dick limp, a grown-ass man ebbing in shame, in a pang of archaic guilt. 

Masturbation was a sin we were taught so at Jachana, as teenagers it came at a prohibitive price as well as damnation, we did it in the showers when no one was there, under the sheets, or in woods, and sometimes got caught, we got beaten up, they threatened to cut it off, terrorizing us and linking pleasure and shame down to our DNA. Now as an adult my ignominy carried all those loans and sanctions compounded over twenty plus years, I am still a mortified teenager, shivering after a wank.

I can’t look at her, she suffocates me, a control freak, and my own daily personal critic.

I called Maher after my gym shower, he gave me my injections after a whole battle, about my dosages, and the frequency, I just ignored him, I need those new cycles if I’m ever gonna win an amateur show and earn my pro card. Bodybuilding was my only my time, manly time, the gym was my haven, I pour all of Christy’s bitchiness and attitude here and at work, but work hasn’t been reciprocating, so lifting is all I have left. I look at Maher, he’s an imposter, a eugenic duplicate of his childhood self, lean, athletic, no longer the fat pussy I used to tease, God I used to be such an asshole to him. I like the guy now, chill, minds his own business, a good listener for when I wanna vent. He has evolved, he didn’t regress the way Christy had.

I made up for that though, he’s making tons of cash now from my partners and workers, those guys are all at around 28% body fat at least, moonfaced, bellies and love handles hanging everywhere, they even smell like grease, their job entitles them to a seat, and the barking of orders at foreign workers all day. They’re an awesome cash cow which is directed towards Maher’s, thanks to me. Fitness is now on-trend, something for everyone, the old money crowd does Pilates, the middle class does yoga (My wife pretends to be middle class and oh! So modest), the edgy and young do Cross Fit, and the trash just lift weights and run on the treadmills. (Me)

Manal called me after my workout, she was with Jon, her voice frantic, her breath in shambles, and she told me about meeting with Sheikh Nabil. I scurried back to my office to meet up with them.

It was the afternoon, a lot less noisy since most of the administrative assholes have left the port, the porters began to dwindle in numbers, it was a perfect setting for a quiet conversation. An ocean of red and blue containers stretched from my office windows, ginormous brownish cranes roosted over them, and their stench of rust agglomerated the port and seeped into the room.

I tapped my foot, pecked at the floor with my heel, paced across the room, and kept staring at my cellphone, at the time which Manal called, down to the minutes, I made a diorama of her movements in my head. I made silly calculations about their trajectory, my math skills barely above an 8th grader, I even took into consideration the traffic to ease my anxiety and wait. My chest heaved to the hypothetical scenarios, what if Nabil had them followed? What if Jon got hurt? What if Manal...I ceased pacing, I was now hulking around, my fingers tensed arching back to my sweaty palms. Where are they?

My phone vibrated. Manal! It turned to be another bank text, more credit card usage, and my fucking wife at it again. What is it this time? What could you possibly need? Fucking cunt.

I needed a purgative of Christy, so I envisioned Manal walking into my office, her long gorgeous black hair, her big black eyes, her lean leggy figure, and most of all her kind genuine attitude. She’d whisper in my ear, calm me down, and try to figure things out, a smart solution to my work issues. She was a luscious woman who can talk like a bro, drink beer with you, the kind that would buy new lingerie just to please her man after a hard-working day, she’d know when you’re having a hard one. She’s a badass musician, a best friend. I just don’t get how a girl like that could be single.

The office door slapped to its side, she stepped in, garbed in black from head to toe, thick around the waist, average in height, and her face speck with makeup. Definitely not Manal.

Laura, Tanious’ widow was in my office, so strange a sight, an intruder in the avenue. Her eyes riveted on me, the dark makeup smudged around her face like a huntress’ markings, out for blood, out for quarry which she had just found. Her eyes were upon me, a histrionic womanly stare.

"You! You did this to us! We trusted you Majd, your brother trusted you! And look at us now!" Laura’s face was in a constant quiver, her body swayed back in forth.

"I’m sorry Laura, things got complicated, our work was very delicate, and may he rest in peace." I tilted my head down. 

"No! You don’t get to say that! We poured every penny we had into this, we bartered with our savings after you convinced us, you promised us! You bastard." She said, gritting her teeth, a mania of rage drooping her femininity.

My fists balled, that word was beyond cruel, sweat poured in my suit, the testosterone injections I had for lunch were boiling in my arteries. Not today bitch, you don’t wanna piss me off today! Just leave.

"I’m really sorry, but there was nothing I could do." My head forcefully still down, quietly digesting her words, imposing an artificial halcyon of calmness. 

"Stop saying that! Stop saying. That!" Laura’s tears drooped on my dusty office floor, she was leaked corrosive intent, "I hope you and your kids starve! I hope you get to see the light leave their eyes! God curse you! God curse you!"

In the blink of an eye, she was on me, her fists knocking on my chest, her mournful cries rampaging the room, she leered upwards into my eyes, every blow irritating me at best, pressurizing my impulsivity, the new cycle I’d taken at high dosages and way too soon was possessing me, I sponged it all, kept on taking it, praying for her to stop, but she didn’t. My dark inner self was saber-rattled, there was no going back, I felt the wrath from my childhood, the wrath that beat up Nasima, the wrath that fought off men years older, that same wrath made me lunge at her.

I grabbed both her wrists with one hand, lifted them, my other hand squeezed her jaw, closed her yapper, I pushed her all the way to the wall until her head crashed into it. My sweaty bearded face was fuzzy, vined with veins, my muscles contracted with fury under my suit, I saw her as Christy, my wife, a nagging shrew, a demanding witch of a woman, an androgen sucking vampire, never quenched, a parade of modern estrogen leftist crap, from the nuns that raised me to the woman I used to fuck. Always the victim, always drama, always someone to blame.

My entire body was on the attack, an attack with the vigor of a million scorned men, scorned by petulant entitled women, raising a new generation of betas, of submissive flamboyant cunts, ready to serve, ready to bow, ready to be shitted on for the sake of equality, ready to be castrated! The price we have paid for being born STRAIGHT, MALES! The crusade we had to endure by the feminazi dykes and fags, and straight fucking women! We are done being scapegoated for thousands of years of patriarchy, you whores! Your pussy is not on a pedestal! Your vagina doesn’t make you special! The only privilege straight men got is to abide against your unceasing pitiful whining. 

"Your husband was a pussy, a lazy coward, a piece of fucking shit, he wasn’t even a man. If I hadn’t been loaning him money for the last two years, you and your fucking kids would have starved, no private fucking school stories on your Instagram, you dumb bitch! And now he is dead, my money gone, my ass on the line, and I got to clean up his mess with more money just like all the other times! Don’t fucking tell me what to say! Don’t you fucking dare woman!

I lifted my fist in the air, pummeling her face in thought, but withdrew last second.

Jonathan and Manal were at my office door, watching.