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French dance
Napoleon mon amour, Part 12: What I know is that I met the person whom surely god had sent to keep me from being hurt by my dear absent lover



November 28, 2006

Life is always full of surprises and I keep telling myself, “Just keep prodding along and something good will happen.”  When I first realized that I was in love with my present lover I told myself that perhaps I should change my entire approach to the relationship and set long-term goals.  This was partly because I was the second woman in his life, someone he fucked and it did not seem like I would soon become anything else.  So long-term goals where, in a way, all I could realistically entertain without becoming quickly disillusioned and depressed.  I told myself, “Sarvenaz, this time just be patient: hang in there and wait maybe in five years time you will end up as his official woman.”  This equation made it possible for me to stay in the relationship and not expect too much while harboring hope all the same.  Hope, it seems, is a necessary ingredient of all our endeavors.  This whole ‘live for the moment’ crap is really not human.

More than a year has passed since I have moved here and see Napoleon regularly.  The sex has become better and has certainly not ebbed.  He is more attentive but, as I mentioned before, he won’t give me more than he has to. But most depressing is that his relationship with his ‘official’ girlfriend has also not gotten any worse.  He seems perfectly happy. In fact sometimes I think that I am probably good for their relationship.  I keep him from getting too bored and suffocated by her while being very safe and risk free. He believes, wrongly so, mind you, that I would never break down and tell her.  That is because I am so much like a boy and feign such nobility that even people who know me well think I am incapable of being lowly and mean.  What people never realize is that when a woman is so in love she is indeed dangerous -- lacking all moral fiber.   But it is not revenge that I seek. Not yet.  Not that kind anyway.  Right now I am still in love and despite the slow progress of the matter very much devoted to the long-term goal of having him to myself.  

I know that whenever I reveal too much I need to counter it with some act of daring that reaffirms my individuality and ability to fend without him.  Saturday night was especially difficult.  He was with his girlfriend and could not even call until late Sunday or early Monday.  I was invited to some old friends for a vodka-themed party.  These friends, a doctor and his wife, are very kind people and know other nice people.  But the party was made up of rather boring professional couples.  Ever since my divorce I find it difficult to socialize with other couples unless they are old friends.  I forced myself to go knowing that if I stayed home I would be even more depressed. 

It is funny having a lover like Napoleon makes me feel lonelier than if I did not have one at all! A sex affair does not fill in the big hole of loneliness nor do children or friends.  Only a mate does that. Don’t ask me why but that is the way it is.  We need someone, after all, to nest with it seems, even after we have had children and tried it more than once.  (Come to think of it the only other thing that fills the hole of loneliness, unfortunately for me, is food. But that subject is a book in itself that I am sure can be found in the self-help, psycho-babble section of all good coffee and croissant serving bookstores!) 

Lately, since his parents have gone to Iran for a visit, I find myself cooking for him.  There is some primitive urge to feed the man who fucks you.  So like a good Iranian woman I started making him lubia polo, zereshk polo, khoresht bademejoon etc... He, of course, loved it. But after a week of this I realized that it was becoming too much of a routine and god-forbid I was falling into the role of the older divorcee who cooks you polo if you fuck her.  When I went to the party I decided on the way there to give the polopazi a break.  The party provided the perfect opportunity for me to restore my dignity. 

Let me tell you how:

I got to my friend's beautifully decorated villa early.  The bar was set in the garden and everywhere there were candles and white Lilies. I started drinking shots of Grey Goose.  One and then another and so on.  All the men drank shots, the women mixed drinks. I don’t know why but my taste and habits have always been ‘manlier’ than most other women (sometimes I pay the price for this getting drunker much quicker than the male friends do).  Before I knew it I was feeling rather euphoric from the vodka.  The guests had arrived and the vodka made my French flow better than usual. 

Now, in these parties you have to be careful not to offend anyone.  All the men are there with their wives. If I was there with a husband then I would flirt but being the only single woman there made it dangerous to do so.  I am not the flirtatious type.  Mostly because I feel too over-weight to be attractive enough to engage in that kind of thing but also because I am capable of just simple camaraderie. Something a lot of women are incapable of -- some women flirt even with their female friends. As if flirting is the only way they know how to communicate.  That night, the vodka, the beautiful weather, and the fact that my beloved lover was with his woman made me slightly more prone to adventure. 

Some time after everyone had shown up, a French couple walked in.  The man was tall and handsome but the woman was even better.  She had long black hair with platinum high-lights that would normally look too vulgar but looked just right on this tall, slim and incredibly sexy woman.  She was between forty-five and fifty and had the most amazing blue-grey eyes.  I don’t know if she looked at me because I looked at her.  Outside a lesbian bar or a Berkeley coffee shop one has to be careful about the messages one gets from creatures of the same sex.  This woman had come in with her husband so chances of her being a lesbian were slim and anyways I am far too timid to make any moves. 

But the more I drank the more this woman seemed to be giving me the eye.  The last time she did this I smiled at her, raised my glass and nodded.  She did the same.  A rock and roll number came up.  The French love rock and roll.  I went up to her in the middle of this party with all my very conservative friends watching and asked her to dance! And she did. We ended up dancing most of the evening.  I tried hard not to look like a lesbian but rather like a woman who just likes to dance.  I do not know nor care if I revealed my proclivities.  What I know is that I met the person whom surely god had sent to keep me from being hurt by my dear absent lover: our very own Iranian Vicomte de Valmont.

When we stopped dancing we moved towards the bar and started talking.  Her husband is a pediatrician, like my friend, she runs a glass blowing studio in a little town nearby.  They have a son who attends the University where I teach!  She told me that her son had told her about me and that she had told my friends who had then informed her that they knew me.  This even further complicated things. Now she was not only married to a doctor, but her son was one of the students in my University! But that Grey Goose had given me the courage of a suicide bomber and I was not about to stop my quest for a great dose of revenge-fucking with this beautiful woman. 

At one point I leaned over touching her hand which was resting on the bar and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to go back to my place to smoke a joint?”  She put her fingers on her mouth and smiled looking at me and said, “What do I do about the doctor, my husband?”

“Bring him too if you must.”

“Let me see. I will be right back.”

She crossed the room as I followed her with my eyes feeling incredibly butch. She talked to him for a few seconds and came back.

“He has to work tomorrow, but I can come if you take me back home later. I live two minutes from here.”

“So do I. Great. Let’s go quietly. Otherwise they will insist that we stay: an Iranian thing.”

I drove the two short blocks home. Still not sure if this woman really just wanted to smoke a joint or if she was on the same page as me.  We got into the elevator of my building and she leaned down, took my face in her hands and gave me the most assertive of kisses penetrating my mouth deeply with her rather enthusiastic tongue.  Inside my apartment I rolled a joint as she kissed my neck. We had a couple of hits and fell into each others arms.  She took out my breasts and started biting and pulling at one nipple then the next. My hands went down her panties as I touched her wet pussy.  She let out a cry, after a little exploring of her vagina and caressing of her hardened clitoris I took her hand and led her into my room (thanking god that the kids were away for the weekend). 

On the bed we undressed each other; she started playing with my clitoris as I sucked her small but round and firm breasts.  She moved up to kiss me and placed her leg between mine pressing it against my cunt.  Then she went down and started licking my clitoris. First slowly then pressing harder and moving it faster.   Feeling an orgasm coming a bit too early I held her head in my hands and pulled her up.  We kissed as I played with her clitoris.  She lay down on her back and I turned around so that my kos would be on her face and hers under mine.  As I started eating her out she cried with pleasure reciprocating the speed and pressure of my tongue with hers.  We came together our cries of pleasure merging into one. Comment

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