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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 8 The second time The gazebo was tucked away in the far corner of the baagh March 22, 2002 The Iranian I jumped down from the seat against the bathroom wall and made my way back outside the house in silent haste. As I was driving back home I thought about what I had seen in amazement. Who would have thought the sweet, willowy, and beautiful Goli, could be so assertively decadent. I smiled thinking of the way she ordered the etelati guy around. It had simply been one of the most erotic scenes that I had ever encountered. What, I wondered, had brought the two of them to this point of engaging in erotic play? He a hezbollahi agent spying on her husband, a young man of a different class and a different culture and she a completely westernized, Americanized, Iranian party girl. How did they end up in that bathroom like that? When I arrived home my mother yelled at me for being so late and told me to get dressed to go to Mehri joon's house. Iranian Moms treat you like you are perpetually fourteen no matter your actual age. I apologized and made up an excuse and went to change. Mehri joon's house was an old Daroos villa the kind they built during the Shah's reign. A modern looking thing with lots of glass, steel and marble. The garden was lit with low mushroom like plexi-glass lights. I could smell the cut grass of the rectangular lawn. In the swimming pool wide lotus leaves, with candles in the middle of them, floated. A faint sound of a tar and dombak could be heard in the background. Mehri joon glided towards us and greeted us oozing honey. She grabbed my hand and took me to her, newly arrived from the States, son, Ardeshir. "Ardeshir joon," she continued in exaggerated delight, "look at Sarvenaz, how she has blossomed!" I thought of what Mehri joon would think of me kissing Goli earlier and smiled. Ardeshir smiled back with equal amount of sarcasm. "My I remember you were just a little girl last time I saw you," he said. "And you were a little boy." I kept smiling. "Sarvenaz is at New York University. Getting her foghe lisaance," Mehri joon interjected. "And you live in Boston?" "Yes I do. But I do come to New York often." Mehri joon slipped away and Ardeshir and I continued to talk and sip on the vodka limes he got us. He still had the same nerdy look as when he was a boy. Only the glasses were Gaultier now and he looked at me with a confidence that was not there when we were kids. "You remember the gazebo?" he asked smiling. "Of course," I replied without looking at him. "I often have thought about that night all these years." "Well, I am not surprised. You seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed yourself." We laughed together. Our last year in Iran, before we went away to school in the States, while our parents were busy playing rummy, a sixteen year old Ardeshir and a fourteen year old me had gone off into the gazebo that was tucked away in the far corner of the baagh. It was a warm summer night and Ardeshir was due to leave for boarding school in two days. We had always been playmates since childhood because of our mothers very close friendship. But in adolescence we grew shy of each other. I always felt Ardeshir's eyes on me ever since I developed breasts. I secretly loved to arouse him and always made sure I wore very tight shirts with open buttons or cleavages when we went over to their house. I knew that he would masturbate thinking of me. That night, perhaps because he was about to leave for abroad, he mustered up enough courage to ask me to take a walk to the gazebo with him. There he grabbed me and kissed me. A sloppy, inexperienced kiss full of teeth. But the desperate way he groped at me made me dizzy. He rubbed my breasts like they would grow bigger the harder he did it. He opened the buttons to my jeans fumblingly. There on the wicker coach in the gazebo he laid me down with my jeans down to my ankles and my shirt open but still on. He pulled down his pants and underwear and got on top of me. I felt the warmth of his erection against my pubic hair as he lay there not sure what to do. I kissed him trying to show my approval. He started rubbing himself against me as he fondled my breasts. A few minutes of this and I felt a warm liquid cover my kos -- he shuddered as he held me. I remember wondering if I would get pregnant that way. He took off his under shirt and cleaned his semen with it, apologetically. We walked back to the house and watched TV with the maid and the cook in the small room off of the kitchen. I remember it was the popular series "Sarkaar Ostovaar". The thought of that evening long ago brought a smile on my face. "So what were you thinking now? About my bad manners in the gazebo many moons ago?" asked Ardeshir. "You know you got more pleasure than I did that night?" "I will be willing to settle the account whenever you wish, my dear Sarvenaz." "I would be worried that you may forget yourself or, shall we say me, again." "The many years since then have changed me in ways that might surprise you." "Pleasantly, I hope," "Is that a challenge?" "Not one bit!" "Come on lets go to the gazebo just to check it out." He took me by the arm and I let him lead the way. Once in the gazebo he kissed me in such a tender yet passionate way that it made my knees go weak. Then he sat me down on the same wicker coach from our teens. He pulled up my skirt, rolled down my panties and opened my legs, and took off his glasses. Before I knew it he had his head between my legs. His tongue knew well where to go and what to do. As if it had a built in map-finder. He knew when to pull and push, when to stroke, when to slow down, and when to speed up. I let my head drop back in pure overwhelming sense of pleasure. I was being taken somewhere-- to a place called bliss-- and I was not going to fight it. Ardeshir never came up for breath he was determined to give me the maximum amount of pleasure right there and then. I could not resist the yearning of his tongue. When I reached orgasm it came in wide waves that circulated through every inch of my body and spiraled down into my kos. He buried his face in my kos as if trying to enter my womb that way. I convulsed with excess pleasure and closed my knees on him. I took his head in my hands, pulled him up and kissed his lips tasting myself. He kissed back passionately. I reached for his crotch and opened his zipper. I found his kir, which was limp. I started stroking it the way Farhad had taught me not too fast, not too hard. Just so. No erection. Then I took him in my mouth. I loved the taste of his kir but I knew soon that my efforts would only cause more disappointment. So I stopped. Then I kissed him gently and asked, "Chee shodeh? Khastehee baby joon?" (What happened? Are you tired, baby joon?) "Na in laamassab hameesheh injooriyeh." (No this idiot is always like this.) "Hameesheh?"( always?) I replied smiling. "Beeshatar shabaa gaahi ham sobaa," (most evenings and some mornings.) "Maybe another time then?" "Inshallah," he said and laughed. He was so completely at ease about his impotence that it was endearing. I love people without hang-ups better than men with big erections anyway, I thought to myself. I showered his face with little dry kisses of affection. He had given me so much pleasure that at that moment I was in love with him. I was disappointed that I could not reciprocate but thought better of trying any more. Instead I wanted to hold him. We sat there in the gazebo and he told me all about his life. How he got married to a gold digger and lost interest quickly and lived a lie of a life for most of his married life until his divorce a year ago. I told him that I thought he had turned out just fine. He laughed and took it as a complement about his oral expression skills! He took me in his arms and told me about his work and his house in Cape Cod. I listened to him and did not feel the hours go by. He listened to me asking me all the right questions responding in the kindest, most attentive way, to all my subtleties and exaggerations. The conversation flew with the ease reserved for old friends. By the time I heard my mother call for me to leave I knew that I would think of Ardeshir on the way home and in bed and then again in the morning. He had given me pleasure and connected with me on a mental level. And that combination was always lethal. I wanted to sleep next to him that night. I needed badly to fall asleep to rhythm of his breathing. To be continued...
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