Napoleon mon amour
December 23, 2005
So much has happened since I last wrote about Napoleon and me that I think I should come back to ‘here and now’ and take you to Tehran when things get slow here again. Last week was my week with him. Or rather the week he can’t stay with his girlfriend. We met late at night as usual. I saw him almost every night and had sex with him four times. The sex was great. It was passionate and vulgar and incredibly satisfying. But me, being in love the way I am, ended up screwing it up so entirely that two dawns ago I was sure that our affair was over.
You see, I was mad at him. He had come over to help my son with his math. Something that I only allowed because he is also a family friend and my son would never suspect anything and I felt that he was safe to have around as a guy friend. God knows I don’t know math past the third grade! My mother had a couple of lady guests. He let me know rather bluntly that he did not like to come over when we have guests. I explained that they were supposed to leave an hour ago but had lingered like Iranians do. The whole thing would not have been a big deal except that I am very sensitive about everything that he does especially when it somehow involves my kids. I really do not want anyone to yell at me in front of my son! Fuck math. Even if he never gets into college (the boy can write!) I decided never again to bring someone I am bedding into my household.
I did not argue with him in front of my son in a house full of Iranian ladies but I did not answer his calls. This is a golden rule: the more you ignore the calls and messages of a guy the more he will call and beg you. I have seen it happen so many times. Even with women I loved. I just think that we have evolved so little that that whole chasing the bitch in the jungle thing still works on some not so subconscious level! Anyway he left the nicest messages, even called my mom and asked her to have me call him. I finally did and we made up.
But words, although when spoken in kindness have great remedial value, are still just words. Our situation remains the same he does not accommodate my need to be loved and cared for. So no matter how cool I try to be, no matter how much I love the sex and do not want to give it up I cannot hide my deep-down unhappiness. I have learned through the years that unhappiness with a relationship does not necessarily ruin the sex. Not if neither partner wants to give up on the sex. And right now, in case you have not noticed sex is the most important ingredient in a relationship for yours truly.
I have tried really hard not to let Napoleon know, as you do, to what extent I love him. For me, being eternally expressive and verbally exhibitionist, secrecy is about the most difficult thing to demand of me. I am also impatient, the way Iranians whose parents gave them too much love, are. This affair sometimes seems like some grueling spiritual exercise or penance prescribed and inflicted from above. Me, who hated waiting for boys to call since I was ten, have to sit between the hour of eleven and twelve and just wait for that cell phone to ring. I have put the ringer on “classic phone ring” because what I am doing, waiting for the call, all decked out and made up to the hilt, is so fifties. It belongs to an age when we still turned numbers on black phones with round dialers. But love makes us do things we would not otherwise. My women studies professor would cringe and disown me but the truth is when you love like this you are a pre-feminist dame no matter how hard you try: you are more Betty Crocker than Betty Friedan.
Also, since I wrote in these diaries last Napoleon gave me a lecture about how I should get a job. Insinuating, in the kindest way possible, that if I had a life of my own I would be more desirable, less of a burden on his life. Anyway, whether he meant it as a friend or he meant it the way I took it, his comments worked. I was so offended that I came home and finally sent out the two emails and CV’s that I was supposed to sent to a couple of contacts since I moved here and had been procrastinating about. Sure enough in five days I had two very good job offers. The kind that would make anyone proud of me: one teaching at a university another working for a big charity. He was thoroughly impressed. And I of course, knowing men a little by now, made it look like if it was not for his encouragement and coaching I would not have had the jobs.
The night I went there with the news of the job I wore my trashiest clothes. I knew that the last thing I had to look like was who I really was. I had to look vulgar so as to not intimidate him intellectually. I don’t care what anyone says and maybe men’s dicks don’t get hard the same way in Harvard Square as they do on Park Avenue, but believe me, ninety percent of the time a woman’s intellectual superiority is the biggest turn off.
I had more than my usual number of scotches before I saw him. That night I told him I was happy but I did not want to talk about work. I told him how everything he had told me to do in the interview I had done. Then I straddled him on the couch and started kissing him and thanking him for pushing me and coaching me. I told him I so needed someone to keep me in line. I was acting like a little girl in need of guidance. I did not tell him that perhaps all those hours at the library and all those articles published may have had something to do with me getting the job. No, that would have been a turn off. I sell my feminism in a minute for a hard cock!
I was afraid that he would have erection problems because of my success. Also ever since that time, when he did, I am a bit paranoid. Seeing him around midnight after he has had many vodka limes also makes it a little riskier. But that Napoleon is not oghdehyee and he is sure of his kir. Nothing is more appealing to a woman than a man who is sure of his kir.
The guy had a hard-on that betrayed a most accommodating level of arousal. He took me to his bed and pulled down my skirt, rolled down my fishnet stocking to my knees and penetrated me the way he knows I love hard, deep and rhythmic. He kissed me with passion and said, “joonam, meekhastaam bokonamet, bebin cheghadr shagh kardam barat.”
“biyaa azizam, maleh to’eh... ”
“begoo doostam daree,” I said pulling back a little teasingly.
“dooset daram... ” he said for the first time ever.
“joon, meekonamesh har chee bekhaye meekonamesh... ”
“begoo doostet daram... begoo”
“dooset daram azizam... ”
I told him that I wanted to suck him, taste him. He pulled out of my koss and put his kir in my mouth. I sucked and licked the way you can only when you really love the kir itself, regardless, in a way, of the guy. With his fingers he played with my clit till I could not take it any more. He tried to turn it into a sixty-nine. But I don’t like to be eaten out really. Not when in love with a guy. I don’t know, maybe I feel like it is too smelly and wet my koss to be pleasing. I have had guys who love to eat you out even when you have your period. The Zoroastrian professor was like that. But he was old and did not have the hard-on that Napoleon does. Anyway, I stopped him from going down on me, I turned over on my stomach and lifted my ass slightly, “bokon mano,” I was ordering by then. He did. So well, so long.
I felt him getting tired, I wanted him to come.
“Emshab meekham abeto bereezee roo soorataam... ”
He pulled out of my koss, put one knee on each side of my head, with one had he jerked off with the other he played with my clitoris. He let out the biggest ahhhhhh and came on my face. The warmth of his semen on my face made me come like I had seldom before.