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This story is about an adult subject. If you are under 18
and happen to read this, talk to an adult afterwards. And ask lots of questions. Part 7 Open curtain I really wanted to see what was going on March 15, 2002 The Iranian We sprang to motion and put ourselves together with the expertise of those who are used to betrayal. Banani kissed Goli and told her that he had invited some important business guests. The kind that are devout and do not drink. He apparently did not just write poems. She frowned and said, "Akhhhhhhh. I hate these hezbollahi friends of yours." He said, "can't you make some of your ghormeh sabzi. And just leave it on the stove. You can go back to Tehran after that if you wish. You cannot be in their company anyway. It has to be an all male dinner, you know these are religious types." Goli looked at me and rolled her eyes in a gesture of general fed-upness. "I have to take Sarvenaz back to Tehran." "Goli jan, just make the dinner and go. Is that too much to ask?" Banani looked at me. "She hangs out in this place all day while I try to make a living worthy of her. And once if I ask for dinner she acts like I am being impertinent." "Look Goli, I would love you to show me how to cook Ghormeh Sabzi, then you can take me back," I said, hoping this would save the situation. "Barikalaa dokhtare haaye khoob. Goli Jan you have to listen to your friend she is your guest after all. Plus she will need to cook for her boyfriend in America. You have to teach her your Ghormehsabzi," Banani said with a wink that made my stomach turn. Goli and I went into the kitchen and started preparations for dinner. There was something soothing about going through the familiar motions of chopping onions and herbs and washing rice. Goli washed the rice, rinsing it many times, without ever losing a single grain to the sink. My similar attempts had always resulted in losing a good amount of the rice to be cooked in the drain. The more you washed the rice the better the chance of it being white and fluffy when cooked. I liked to watch her run her fingers through the water and the rice. " I hate to be told to cook -- like I HAVE to." Said Goli, "Like that is how I pay back my keep." "Does he invite people often and tell you later? Don't you guys have a cook?" "We do but he is in his village visiting his family. Plus when these bigwig Hezbollahi's come up here to eat and smoke they prefer no one around," and then in a hushed voice, "they talk business." I nodded letting her know that I knew what she meant. "I just like to be given a little notice and asked if it was a good day for me or not?" "Well has it not been a good day for you so far?" I looked at her and smiled. She put her long fingers on her mouth and laughed. We drove back to Tehran chatting about everything with an ease that made it seem like we had grown up together. She told me of Banani and I told her of how I fell out of love with Farhad. We talked of first kisses and first loves and of our favorite this and our favorite that. We got to my house and kissed each other goodbye. She drove off leaving behind a trace of her powdery scent. As she drove away in her jeep I noticed the Nissan Patrol turn into the street from a side alley and follow her. As I often do, I followed my initial inclination to pursue them. I ran in the house and asked Masht Hossein, the gardener if he knew where the keys to my mom's car were. He gave them to me and I sped off telling him that I had something to pick up at the tailors and would be back soon in case anyone should ask. I caught up with them three traffic lights down. Goli drove home and parked inside the gate. The Nissan patrol parked in the same corner it had the first time I saw it. I parked on the corner on the main street to avoid being seen by them. The driver was the same Etelaati (secret agent), Mohammad who gave me a ride home yesterday. He got out of the car looked this way and that, slipped through the gate and closed it. I really wanted to see what was going on and was very concerned for Goli so I found a footing on the brick wall, climbed it and jumped over. I followed Mohammad into the house on tiptoe, careful not to be detected. Goli had dropped her Roopoosh and Maghna'eh on the staircase. I heard the sound of a shower being turned on in the distance. Mohammad opened the door of the bathroom and entered. I walked around the back balcony, put a chair against the outside wall of the bathroom where there was a small rectangular window open. I looked in. Goli had her clothes on and was running the shower. Mohammad stood inside the door. She turned like she expected him and made him sit on the toilet seat facing the shower. He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. He came to open his fly but she told him, "Na zippeto vaaze nakon." (No don't open your zipper.) He obeyed. And left his erection under his zipper. His face was red and he avoided looking at Goli's face. She started to undress. Slowly. First her shirt, button by button. Then she turned around and bent over to take off her socks. Mohammad went to touch himself. As if she could see from behind she said, "Na dast nazan be khodet." (No, don't touch yourself.) Once again Mohammad obeyed. Goli dropped her skirt and turned around to face him. She had on white lace panties. She proceeded to undo her bra ever so gently and let her perfect breasts loose -- first one and then the other. "Bezaar dast bezanam," (Let me touch) pleaded Mohammad. "Na. Neemesheh," said Goli in a ruthless voice that I would never have guessed she could possess. She rolled down her panties, turned around and showed him another view of her bent over buttocks. Then she entered the shower, not closing the curtain, and let the water run over her head. She touched her nipples and played with her breasts as Mohammad looked on stunned, hungry and ready to explode. She sat on the ceramic tiled bench in the shower and spread her legs wide open. She started touching herself with one hand as she closed the curtain with the other. Mohammad could now only see an outline of her. He moved to open the curtain but she told him no once more and he obeyed. Then she opened the curtain ever so slightly. Mohammad had to tilt his head to see through the slim crack. Goli had her long finger inside the folds of her kos caressing herself. Her head was turned up towards the running stream of water, her mouth half open. "Bezaar bekhodaam dast bezanam," pleaded Mohammad ever more desperate. "Na. Kireto dar beeyar vali dast nazan."(No. Take out your penis but do not touch yourself), Goli replied sharply. Again Mohammad obeyed. He opened his zipper and let out his penis. He went to touch it but Goli stopped him. She closed the curtain again. "Toro khoda bezaar bebeenamet." (Please let me see you.) Goli turned off the shower and stepped out dripping. She walked over and stood over him with one long leg on each side of him. She dripped water on him. "Meekhaye dast bezaani?" (Do you want to touch?) Mohammad unable to talk just nodded yes. And reached to touch her breast. She slapped his hand, "naa unjaa roo nemeetooni dast bezaani." (No you cannot touch there.) She took his hand and put it on her kos. He let out a big groan. She showed him how to rub her. He went to touch himself with his other hand but she slapped it again. He obeyed content to be able to caress her. He pushed and pulled and caressed with abandon. Every time he pushed a finger into her Goli would take it out, "Faaghat as roo meetooni dast bezaani" (you can only touch the surface!) Mohammad closed his eyes and rubbed her kos afraid no doubt that if he looked it would be too much and all would end. Then all of a sudden as if she had had enough Goli pulled back his hand, went back and sat on the shower bench and started caressing herself again. "Halla meetooni bekhodet daast bezaani." (Now you can touch yourself), she said through her heavy breath as she caressed herself to orgasm. Mohammad started stroking himself. One, two, three, four strokes and came, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh." To be continued...
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