"I AM NOT AYMAN!"

Anonymous—Egypt—Age 22

The protagonist's inability to translate his web-based identity into the real world parallels the essayist's own self-censorship. For while she offered what is most likely a fictionalized account, the contributor nevertheless insisted that her piece be published anonymously.

THE SCREECH OF TIRES SNAPPED HIM BACK TO ATTENTION, RE-placing the thoughts buzzing around his brain with an anxious immediacy. He stared at the cab driver behind the wheel, her mouth opening and closing over and over for no apparent reason. Her fillings flashed silver at him every few seconds. Her windows were up, rendering her comically mute despite her traffic-induced rage. He had had enough. He would walk the rest of the way. As he did, his mental disarray did not prevent him from giving due respect to the nonexistence of traffic laws in Cairo.

He approached the alleyway that served as one of the city's pickup spots, noting with equal amounts of jealousy and fear the men standing around. They swaggered, clothes torn and tight in the style associated with male homosexuality. Their faces attempted rebellious outrage with courage implied in their plucked eyebrows and slightly rouged cheeks, these visible signs distinguishing them from "real men." And yet he imagined he could detect in them an uncertainty—trepidation born from knowing that others had been taken away for doing just this on other Mondays, Wednesdays, Anydays. He imagined he could see in their cocky stances a readiness for flight.

He had picked this particular spot knowing that it was slightly less conspicuous than others, just in case it were to turn out that he had been tricked all along, and that he had cultivated a relationship with a decoy. He saw Tariq standing a few meters away, wearing the blue striped shirt he had been told to look out for. Never in their online conversations had he shared with Tariq a picture of himself, preferring safe anonymity to the promise of future intimacy. He had not worn his blue-striped shirt, telling himself he did not like the way it looked on him. He could do enough recognizing for both of them.

He held back, trying not to stare at the man he had been talking to for the past eight months. They had planned numerous meetings before. He had many times approached the date with queasy anticipation, calling it off at the last minute. A fictitious business trip one time, an imagined death in the family another. Tariq's patience had brought him here today. A vice informant would not wait this long, he told himself. An informant would not invest so much time creating plausible details.

Or would he? He looked around once more, suspicious, trying to find ill will lurking in the faces subjected to his exacting scrutiny. He cleared his throat. Then he took what he imagined some novelists he had read meant by "a measured breath." Sweat trickled into his eyes, a burning rivulet of building anxiety he was trying to keep under control. He...