The first explosion takes me by surprise for its hasty arrival. He has lit a match under me, so it seems. A flash flame sweeps across my body, presently starting a fire. He’s taken me to the first vista on this delicious hike. I sense the ripples across my skin as my mind bobs along the calm waters of post-orgasm bliss. His hand continues to explore in between my legs, kissing every inch with the fingertips. I moan – a moan of gratitude, delight and wonderment, wrapped into one. I turn to him now, touching his face, running my fingers over his eyelids, along the bridge of his nose, caressing his right cheek ever so lightly before my hand traces his lips where a gentle and quiet smile is lingering. I kiss him deeply taking his tongue into my mouth and keeping it there. It’s mine; mine right now. He lets out a moan and it is now my turn to host a mental smile. I feel him stiffen; I chuckle and wait.
The climb has been effortless; as if this is the most natural course of events for the two of us. A friendship has simply spilled over. All the way up to this point and from here on he has led, I have followed. He has set the pace, I have kept the beat. He has sought – and I have echoed. And here we are holding hands as we wander through the corridors of desire on this dark summer night. In the midst of this desert, an oasis has materialized, a gift from the gods – and so we feast.
There is only so much stillness that can be tolerated. We both start moving, rearranging heads and hips, limbs and lips. It is unknown territory, his body and mine, as we meld and marvel. Like pieces of putty we glue together and then come apart, and then as two puddles of ink, we coalesce.
My mind attempts to trace the topography of the why and the how. What has placed us on this bed in the middle of nowhere? I can’t maintain focus for the distraction of his hands, his smell and his breath far outweighs the reasons for it all. It matters naught. We are here. What’s there to understand, analyze or make sense of? Our souls kiss and for that there need be neither reason nor question. He is talking to me with his hands and I with his. Fingertips loaded with nerve endings pass on the messages that words fail to convey. Looks fall aside in this darkness, leaving the sense of touch to celebrate – to partake of this most delicious of all connections between a man and a woman.
My mind flashes back to the balcony where he had held me earlier on. His hands had run along my spine underneath my shirt before they had found their way to my breasts, heavy to his touch.
I vaguely could make the shadow of a person in a neighboring window.
“Look, someone is watching us.”
“Who are they going to tell?” He had shut me up by covering my mouth with his.
Boldly I had reached to unbutton his shirt, marveling at my nimble fingers finding their way in the dark. With each button coming undone, and the skin revealed, my excitement had multiplied. I had pulled the shirt tail out of his jeans before peeling it off, and then had reached for his belt buckle. He had laughed in anticipation at my impatience. I had let go and reached for my own shirt and in one fell swoop had pulled it over my head. Before it was strewn aside, his head was buried in between my breasts devouring them. My nipples had hardened as a deadly throb attacked all senses. We had turned the corner on that balcony and there was no going back.
His voice returns me to the moment, this fateful moment with my head against the pillow while his explores my nooks and crannies. He bites my neck, my shoulders and my chest – as if wanting to leave a trail of his sojourn. I let out a yelp. “Don’t stop.” I plead and he doesn’t. I want to kiss back, bite back – hold him, but he won’t let me. I am the taker and he gives, and gives plenty.
He is talking to me in Farsi, whispering in my ear. The voice – the words – the warmth, remind me of a distant summer, the smell of dank dust; the familiar voices from the house of my childhood as I hid my once lanky self in the branches of a cherry tree, gorging on the fruit. Sinful childhood innocence. The language is intimate far beyond the touch. Another connection, another first I share with him here. I want to cry – happy tears. I want to talk back in Farsi but I can’t. The words choke in my throat. He places a finger on my mouth to stop me from babbling in English. I take his finger and kiss it. I don’t want to let it go. “Pedar-sookhteh” I finally mutter and I feel his smile against my cheek. Victory.
I free my hands and let them roam over his body to my heart’s desire. The unfamiliarity of it is astounding as I run my fingers across his chest, his broad back, all the way down to his narrow hips and beyond, searching for markers – ones that I can revisit in my mind some day. I am climbing once again on this hike. He places a knee in between my legs and delivers a delicious thrust. I squeeze back as a grunt escapes my throat. Dizzy with desire and dripping, I pull him close. I ache for him. “Mikhamet” I utter. He lifts himself up, spreads my legs apart with his and positions himself. We lock eyes – I am convinced of it – though I cannot see him. The first contact brings out a collective cry. He enters me slowly, remains inside for a moment before the instinctive rhythm sets our bodies in motion. I lift my legs slightly attempting to wrap them around his hips as we rock back and forth. We move to the beat that he is setting; the treble clef and the bass of a sonata, mirroring each other, making music. The images in my head dissipate as every cell and thought hone in on this man – now. I can sense the waves in the horizon, calling my name. Surrender draws near.
“Joon” he utters and, with that one syllable, sends me over the edge as I fold and plummet into the cavern of many deaths. The waves, sharp and repeated, slam against my spine; as blood gushes through my legs bringing about a massive eruption where they meet – where he is. He feels the jolt and takes up the pace. I yield and hold on to him. Letting go would be anguish – death for sure.
I see the stars, the stars of the early evening when he and I had watched them together to the tune of an old love ballad on the radio. I recall the gentleness with which he had reached for my hand and how easily our fingers had intertwined and started making love well before our bodies had wrapped around each other. I remember that first kiss, bold and shy at the same time – under the twinkling carpet of the heavens – where I stood stunned; in a stupor, as he and I stepped through the gate of self-abandon into the land of the unknown.
Honey laced kisses, sweet delight, heady reverberations, mini-volcanoes erupting in our ears, gentle earthquakes rumbling through our bones only to culminate on this bed, into such a voluminous crescendo – almost frightening. The convulsions shake me as the climax approaches and slaps me onto the shore of bliss one more time before the pins and needles arrive and scurry along my body.
I roll on top of him. Our bodies undulate to a new tune – my tune. He holds me in place, offering his forearms for support as my breasts repeatedly brush across his chest. He cries out. I sense him at the edge but I won’t let him go over. I am losing control though, begging for mercy. He rolls me back on the bed, lifts my legs, locks his arms behind my knees and enters me fiercely, tearing me deep. I yell, I scream, I plead. “Akh, Akh – baz ham”. I sense him quicken and twitch. With one final thrust he dives into his abyss. His throbbing body covers mine, his head taking refuge in the hollow of my neck. I feel his heartbeat resonate through my ribcage. And together we sigh.
