Post by goldenmyst on Jan 10, 2021 22:42:46 GMT -6
1001 Nights Continued
Her sapphire eyes burned the color of deep blue arctic ice. She lay naked, entangled in linen sheets. The room was illuminated by the soft glow of flickering candles. Persian rugs hung from the wall, their arabesque designs bringing back memories of the intricate mosaics in the mosque back in Syria. She used to love to run her fingers over the inlaid stones, tracing the patterns, and feeling a sense of beauty beyond words.
That feeling came back with full force as she gazed, like a lovely bird, at her own form outlined beneath the sheets. The housekeeper man appraised her china-blue eyes and their eyes met in a sharing of intimate knowledge of each other.
But the master of the house, Hassan, did not know that his manservant had tasted of her forbidden fruit. They had delighted in each other like two birds in a jungle forest. Ahmed was her dearest companion and without him, her life would be barren as the deserts of their homeland. If Hassan knew of their dalliances his fury would be like a great mother of a storm and destroy anyone in its path. If he found out Aisha would never see her darling Ahmed again for all her mortal days.
The smoke from the candles coiled upward like snakes. Aisha could smell the jasmine burning in the mother of pearl inlaid incense burner sitting on the cherry wood table. Ahmed watched mesmerized as Aisha stretched, cat-like, beneath the sheets. She had such a feline grace in her movement that Ahmed felt a burning desire to clasp her peaks and feel her soft flesh, succulent as ripe tomatoes in his palms.
Hassan strode in and looked down at Aisha like an emperor surveying his land. She was his chattel to do with as he pleased. His bearded visage looked at Aisha and then at Ahmed. Aisha felt her anger, like glowing coals, burning in her breast. She knew that begrudging your husband for some wrong, imagined or real, was not the way of God. And in her heart, she was unsure if he had earned her indignation or if it was born from a figment of her imagination. After all, she wasn’t perfect and who was she to judge Hassan.
Ahmed had left his own culture, with the freedom he had cherished, as a male in the Arab world, to follow his heart that led him into the arms of Aisha who felt strangely familiar to him as though he’d known her before. Hassan had no children but had Aisha as a wife and his consolation prize for a life which had not given him the passion he most desired.
He had wanted to be a priest in the mosque but had been denied because he could not control his carnal appetites. He thought being close to God would redeem him and awaken his sleeping passion but this path had proven to be full of thorns and sharp stones and he had not the strength to give up his hedonistic cravings.
Aisha had given him her body and soul and in return, he gave her homemade fig preserves in July. With each jar, her love for him reawakened like the fruit-bearing trees. He was a failed romantic who hadn’t had the courage to live the life he was meant to live. Ahmed had become her swan lover, in their secret marriage of souls. He was the force that sustained her strength.
In memory of what once was, Aisha patted Hassan on the back. Hassan said, “My beautiful bird. I think if I lost you, I’d be doomed.”
Aisha sat on the bed and said to Hassan, “Aren’t I angelic? Look into my fathomless eyes. Don’t you long to get lost in me? One could find paradise on earth in my arms.” Hassan summoned an ember of kindness and reached down and stroked Aisha’s silky hair and looked down smiling mischievously at Aisha. She smiled up at him coquettishly.
Hassan’s spark of humanity arose like the phoenix bird and he said, “Well, I will leave you to attend to the shopping.”
“Can Ahmed help me? Those grocery bags get so heavy when filled.”
Hassan said, “Like my heart when filled with the sorrow of loneliness.”
Aisha replied, “Your life is devoted to Allah. For such a man solitude is the only life.”
Hassan said, “Women need men to bear the load of life.” He spun around and walked out briskly.
As Aisha unclasped her bra, Ahmed felt the wonder of rediscovering her beauty. It was like looking at a painting and seeing it with new eyes, seeing textures and layers of color which had not been apparent before. She took on a glow even brighter and more sublime than he had ever seen in her before.
They lay cuddling together like doves in a nest. Aisha whispered to Ahmed, “I wish there was a way we could be together without him. How could you sacrifice your liberty to be with me?”
Ahmed rocked Aisha gently in his arms. He spoke softly, “It is the only way we can be together. I wish there was another way. But whether you love him or not he rules you in accordance with sharia law. You are his wife and he will hunt us down like dogs if we run. That is the reason I have to give up my male privilege to have you. You are worth more to me than being free.”
Soon, Suddenly Aisha felt a pang of fear. If Hassan walked in, she would never know the heaven of Ahmed’s touch again. This she could not allow. At that moment she decided to follow a course which could destroy them forever.
Aisha pushed the wet sheet off her body. Ahmed watched as she stepped in the shower, her body a symphony of womanly curves, her creamy skin lustrous in the candlelight. He followed her in and they bathed like nymphs in at a sacred spring. He washed her back gently pressing the cloth into her crevices, washing away the scent which would betray their love to Hassan.
Ahmed dressed Aisha and then put on his kaftan. They walked out into the brilliant sunlight of spring in New Orleans. Aisha felt so free with him, as they walked beneath the oak trees of the garden district along St. Charles Ave. But this was an illusion she reminded herself. She could not even drive a car because of Hassan’s patriarchal tradition. She watched a beautiful woman wearing jogging clothes exposing her midriff.
She knew that if she exposed that much of her beauty, she would incur Hassan’s wrath. If only he could see that his dominion of women is such a poor imitation of the liberating power which comes from making oneself vulnerable. He will never know the deeper fulfillment that comes from opening oneself as equal to the power of a woman.
They got on the streetcar and began their journey to the French Quarter. A cool breeze blew through the open window of the car and Aisha laid her head on Ahmed’s shoulder. Everything was bright and fresh. Flowers bloomed in profusion. The mansions gleamed white. Oak trees draped in Spanish moss hung over them.
As they passed Audubon Park, Aisha gazed at a mother having a picnic with her two children. The Mom sat cross-legged on the grass, her pink skirt riding up on her hips. The boy laid his head in her lap as she caressed his hair. The girl lay down on a blanket sleeping. Aisha longed for that kind of life but Hassan said his devotion to the prophet and mosque usurped any dreams of children. But within Aisha’s womb fate lay soon to be released upon their marital world.
Ahmed stepped off the streetcar at Canal Street and held Aisha’s hand as she followed him. They walked under a brilliant blue sky with puffy clouds floating lazily overhead. Tourists walked by in herds making their procession. They passed through the crowd together on their own journey. As they approached Jackson Square the sensual beauty of a woman in a tight floral print summer dress made Aisha giddy. A woman sat getting sketched by an artist. Ahmed put his arm around Aisha’s waist as they walked toward the Progresso store. Aisha’s body felt so warm and supple to Ahmed in his embrace.
They walked into the store and smelled the rich aroma of Middle Eastern spices and food. Aisha’s mouth watered and she yearned to taste the savory cuisine. She picked out some hummus, falafel, and moussaka in cans. Aisha knew Ahmed and the boy or girl in her womb would love these dishes. They ordered vegetarian muffulettas dripping with spiced mozzarella cheese, olives, green peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic.
As they sat eating, Ahmed gazed at her. He loved watching her devour the sandwich. She licked her ruby lips and he longed to lick them for her. Everything she did, even eating, was done with such erotic sensuality that Ahmed felt the fire of arousal in his loins. He reached across the table and brushed locks of hair from her forehead. Then he traced her lips with his fingertip. She sighed so passionately, he felt a tremor of throbbing deep in his manhood. He wanted her so badly, more than life itself. It was then that their shared smile reflected the osmosis of a hatched plan.
They left the store with Ahmed carrying their bag of groceries. They passed in front of St. Louis Cathedral where a group of reggae musicians played old Bob Marley tunes. Aisha had learned to love American music as she had learned to crave the glow of freedom, which these women all around her basked in.
They passed through Pirates Alley and onto Orleans Ave. The buildings had luxuriant ferns falling across their iron lacework balconies. A plan unfolded in Aisha’s mind of how they would gain their freedom.
They walked into a health food store. Aisha asked the sales girl where the saltpeter was. She led her to it on the shelf. She smiled and quipped, “Is he playing around on you?”
Aisha said, “Au contraire.”
The young woman laughed, saying, “Down boy, down. Penises tend to rove when they are not welcome! ”
Aisha laughed and patted her on the back. The girl smiled at her as they left and said, “Good luck!”
Ahmed asked Aisha what she planned to do. Aisha told him and he smiled so gratefully.
They got back to the house and Aisha began cooking. As she finished, the table was set and Aisha sprinkled the saltpeter liberally onto Hassan’s moussaka. She called him to dinner. He yelled, “Just a moment, I’m on the last chapter of my book ‘A Saudi in America’.”
Aisha replied, “the food will be cold if you take too long.”
Hassan said, “Alright, cold moussaka isn’t to my taste.”
Ahmed and Aisha sat at the table waiting for Hassan’s arrival. They eagerly waited for fifteen minutes and he finally came in, his hair tousled. Aisha said, “Hassan I fixed this moussaka just for you. I know it is your favorite.”
He smiled and sat down. His rapacity was evident as he devoured the dish with gusto. After dinner, he looked sleepy. Aisha said, “Why don’t you take a nap, Hassan? You look so tired.”
He grunted, “Yes I think I will. Why don’t you join me? The marital bed is lonely without you.”
She led Hassan by the hand into the bedroom. She shed her robe baring her chrysalis. She began massaging Hassan’s tired muscles. He lay on his back and she lay beside him on the bed. She was recreating him, giving him a new life. Deep in his soul, he would be changed, his identity submerging under her sure hands.
Once bared, Hassan felt her fingers warm with sensation, as he closed his eyes, drinking her touch in. When he closed his eyes, in the darkness, he could feel her form like a blind person relearning her beauty through tactile senses. But though Hassan felt her heat he could not rise to the occasion.
With her tongue, she followed the trail of body dew down his stomach to his navel. She lingered there, teasing him with intimations of deeper pleasures to come. Then she continued her journey, brushing down his hara, his lower abdomen. She completed the journey, arriving at the spaghetti noodle that simply would not budge.
Memories have a certain pull and hers brought back the bliss of lost innocence on her honeymoon with Hassan. Therefore out of irrepressible kindness toward the man who wed her she bore down on his flaccidity with her tongue with the fervor of a nurse doing CPR on a man dead set to feel his pulse. Her rolling storm clouds of her fear had dissolved.
Suddenly Aisha heard Hassan curse. “What potion did you give me, witch?”
Aisha trembled with fear. She sat beside him on the bed and said, “I didn’t want any Kodak memories of you poking me with that thing or God forbid spelunking. As long as we share the marital bed I need insurance. Hassan, you and I weren’t destined to be together. We have to part. It is God’s will. I bear a child which may very well not be yours. Surely you don’t want to spend your time fathering a kid when your calling is the priesthood.”
Hassan shook with rage. He raised his finger and said, “If this child was conceived under my roof then he or she is mine!” Hassan looked exhausted. His hair was wild and his eyes red. He said, “I will send you back to Syria. You have no choice.”
Aisha said, “Who’s gonna make me?”
He raised his finger and held it up crooked jabbing the air and pointed at her. He said, “I will!”
She spoke soothingly, softly. “Try me. Hassan, this is a free country. You have no power over me anymore.”
He slumped back into his chair looking defeated. Aisha rose from the bed and approached him. She stood over him and ran her fingers through his scalp. She said, “Hassan, don’t you remember how much you needed your mother when you were young?”
Hassan grabbed her hand gripping it firmly. He said, “But you have betrayed me! This child is my own flesh and blood. How can I let you raise him outside of our home?”
Aisha knelt beside him and kissed his hand. She said, “Hassan, I did a prenatal paternity test. Ahmed is most definitely the father. We can give the boy the love which you never got as a child. I know your parents never gave you the love you needed so desperately. But these children need to be loved.”
“So it shall be. If it is a boy name him Hassan.”
Aisha replied, “The test showed he is a boy and he will bear your name proudly, as his Godfather.”
Hassan said, “Whenever you dine on fig preserves think of me.”
Aisha replied, “Hassan when we got married I was beaming with pride to be the bride of a future priest. Remember I called you my Hawk. You will always be my Hawk.”
Aisha dressed and left Hassan alone in the room. They slept in a motel in Algiers on the west bank of the Mississippi River.
Epilogue
Later their son was five years old. They walked him on the Algiers levee on a beautiful spring day. Suddenly he got the urge to swim. He ran down the levee and treaded water across the river. Ahmed dove in the muddy water in hot pursuit of his son. Aisha did the breaststroke to save her boy. To their amazement, a paddle wheeler passed overhead with no apparent crew like the Flying Dutchman. Wonder upon wonders their son levitated onto the suspended boat and scampered into a room.
As his parents swam below life preservers were thrown down which they wore as invisible sailors hoisted them aboard. They followed their son’s path into the ghost ship. There was their son grown up into a young man. He was accompanied by a young woman whom he did the Charleston with on the ballroom floor. He said, “Mom and Dad join in the fun and cut a rug.”
Ahmed looked astonished like he had arrived at some strange NASA experiment in antigravity designed by a fan of the Philip José Farmer ‘Riverboat’ book. When they went to the sleeping quarters a bellhop said, “You won’t need those earth clothes here.”
Aisha asked, “What will we wear?”
The bellhop replied, “You will find much dispensable.”
Aisha asked, “What can we do without here?”
The bellhop said, “Once you are naked, touch yourself and you will get a surprise.”
“What do you guys have against clothes?”
“Garments have their place but not for making love.”
“Do we look in need of sex training?”
“Ma’am this bonds your souls for your next life. It is the superglue of future marriage.”
Aisha said, “So whoopie is nuptial airplane glue?”
The bellhop replied, “Just insurance, a dose of animal magnetism can’t hurt. The science of astral navigation hasn’t been perfected. You two aren’t averse to sharing a bed together? We could place you in separate rooms.”
Aisha said, “Heavens no! Please, don’t infer my curiosity as reluctance. This girl won’t turn down a roll in the hay with her man. Proceed.”
They lay together like newlyweds on their honeymoon. Aisha followed the bellhop’s advice and discovered her hymen intact. She said, “Ahmed, I am a virgin again.”
Ahmed replied, “Feel me. I am no longer circumcised.”
Aisha answered, “Well, christen me with that poker until my newfound virginity is no more.”
As she lifted her hips, inviting him to follow her into paradise she pulled her panties aside revealing her Goddess beauty in its entire splendor. Her body was so full and womanly and he ran his hands down her sides and to her hips. She gently kneaded his flesh, molding his luscious form with her hands like a potter molding clay. She felt like a sculptress, with him her masterwork. She pressed her hands into his body, imprinting him with her touch. Her moons were beautifully proportioned like the statue of Aphrodite radiating the divine sensuality of a celestial being.
Their bodies entwined slowly, languorously as he grew weak with longing for her. His mouth found the tips of her peaks, trailing pleasure across the hardened rosebuds with his tongue.
Ahmed ran his hand along Aisha’s bare thigh, arcing up to her rounded hips. His hands curved around her hips and his fingers sunk into the firm flesh of her derriere, clasping her moons in his loving grasp.
Aisha’s desire swelled like a surging tide and she felt herself carried along by the current, her body on fire with Ahmed’s touch. His hand glided around her pelvis, finding that place of original magic where life originates. She answered his sensual massage, nurturing him with her caress. Ahmed entered the secret place within her, the source of her deepest pleasure.
Aisha’s hips rose up to meet his hand, undulating like gentle ocean waves lapping her shore.
Freedom rang from the liberty bell of her Mons to the declaration of independence in her moan. Her American dream was to hallucinate herself as lady liberty dressed as a harlot, wrapped in red, white, and blue lingerie. She was a statuesque siren waking into a red light fantasy able to perform a miracle on an impotent John. But she crowned his good with her womanhood as if Florida were raised to point north.
Then the concierge said, “You are now to disembark where you will adopt your new citizenship.” Then it became abundantly clear that the boat was a transfer ship for passengers on their commute to their next life.
Her sapphire eyes burned the color of deep blue arctic ice. She lay naked, entangled in linen sheets. The room was illuminated by the soft glow of flickering candles. Persian rugs hung from the wall, their arabesque designs bringing back memories of the intricate mosaics in the mosque back in Syria. She used to love to run her fingers over the inlaid stones, tracing the patterns, and feeling a sense of beauty beyond words.
That feeling came back with full force as she gazed, like a lovely bird, at her own form outlined beneath the sheets. The housekeeper man appraised her china-blue eyes and their eyes met in a sharing of intimate knowledge of each other.
But the master of the house, Hassan, did not know that his manservant had tasted of her forbidden fruit. They had delighted in each other like two birds in a jungle forest. Ahmed was her dearest companion and without him, her life would be barren as the deserts of their homeland. If Hassan knew of their dalliances his fury would be like a great mother of a storm and destroy anyone in its path. If he found out Aisha would never see her darling Ahmed again for all her mortal days.
The smoke from the candles coiled upward like snakes. Aisha could smell the jasmine burning in the mother of pearl inlaid incense burner sitting on the cherry wood table. Ahmed watched mesmerized as Aisha stretched, cat-like, beneath the sheets. She had such a feline grace in her movement that Ahmed felt a burning desire to clasp her peaks and feel her soft flesh, succulent as ripe tomatoes in his palms.
Hassan strode in and looked down at Aisha like an emperor surveying his land. She was his chattel to do with as he pleased. His bearded visage looked at Aisha and then at Ahmed. Aisha felt her anger, like glowing coals, burning in her breast. She knew that begrudging your husband for some wrong, imagined or real, was not the way of God. And in her heart, she was unsure if he had earned her indignation or if it was born from a figment of her imagination. After all, she wasn’t perfect and who was she to judge Hassan.
Ahmed had left his own culture, with the freedom he had cherished, as a male in the Arab world, to follow his heart that led him into the arms of Aisha who felt strangely familiar to him as though he’d known her before. Hassan had no children but had Aisha as a wife and his consolation prize for a life which had not given him the passion he most desired.
He had wanted to be a priest in the mosque but had been denied because he could not control his carnal appetites. He thought being close to God would redeem him and awaken his sleeping passion but this path had proven to be full of thorns and sharp stones and he had not the strength to give up his hedonistic cravings.
Aisha had given him her body and soul and in return, he gave her homemade fig preserves in July. With each jar, her love for him reawakened like the fruit-bearing trees. He was a failed romantic who hadn’t had the courage to live the life he was meant to live. Ahmed had become her swan lover, in their secret marriage of souls. He was the force that sustained her strength.
In memory of what once was, Aisha patted Hassan on the back. Hassan said, “My beautiful bird. I think if I lost you, I’d be doomed.”
Aisha sat on the bed and said to Hassan, “Aren’t I angelic? Look into my fathomless eyes. Don’t you long to get lost in me? One could find paradise on earth in my arms.” Hassan summoned an ember of kindness and reached down and stroked Aisha’s silky hair and looked down smiling mischievously at Aisha. She smiled up at him coquettishly.
Hassan’s spark of humanity arose like the phoenix bird and he said, “Well, I will leave you to attend to the shopping.”
“Can Ahmed help me? Those grocery bags get so heavy when filled.”
Hassan said, “Like my heart when filled with the sorrow of loneliness.”
Aisha replied, “Your life is devoted to Allah. For such a man solitude is the only life.”
Hassan said, “Women need men to bear the load of life.” He spun around and walked out briskly.
As Aisha unclasped her bra, Ahmed felt the wonder of rediscovering her beauty. It was like looking at a painting and seeing it with new eyes, seeing textures and layers of color which had not been apparent before. She took on a glow even brighter and more sublime than he had ever seen in her before.
They lay cuddling together like doves in a nest. Aisha whispered to Ahmed, “I wish there was a way we could be together without him. How could you sacrifice your liberty to be with me?”
Ahmed rocked Aisha gently in his arms. He spoke softly, “It is the only way we can be together. I wish there was another way. But whether you love him or not he rules you in accordance with sharia law. You are his wife and he will hunt us down like dogs if we run. That is the reason I have to give up my male privilege to have you. You are worth more to me than being free.”
Soon, Suddenly Aisha felt a pang of fear. If Hassan walked in, she would never know the heaven of Ahmed’s touch again. This she could not allow. At that moment she decided to follow a course which could destroy them forever.
Aisha pushed the wet sheet off her body. Ahmed watched as she stepped in the shower, her body a symphony of womanly curves, her creamy skin lustrous in the candlelight. He followed her in and they bathed like nymphs in at a sacred spring. He washed her back gently pressing the cloth into her crevices, washing away the scent which would betray their love to Hassan.
Ahmed dressed Aisha and then put on his kaftan. They walked out into the brilliant sunlight of spring in New Orleans. Aisha felt so free with him, as they walked beneath the oak trees of the garden district along St. Charles Ave. But this was an illusion she reminded herself. She could not even drive a car because of Hassan’s patriarchal tradition. She watched a beautiful woman wearing jogging clothes exposing her midriff.
She knew that if she exposed that much of her beauty, she would incur Hassan’s wrath. If only he could see that his dominion of women is such a poor imitation of the liberating power which comes from making oneself vulnerable. He will never know the deeper fulfillment that comes from opening oneself as equal to the power of a woman.
They got on the streetcar and began their journey to the French Quarter. A cool breeze blew through the open window of the car and Aisha laid her head on Ahmed’s shoulder. Everything was bright and fresh. Flowers bloomed in profusion. The mansions gleamed white. Oak trees draped in Spanish moss hung over them.
As they passed Audubon Park, Aisha gazed at a mother having a picnic with her two children. The Mom sat cross-legged on the grass, her pink skirt riding up on her hips. The boy laid his head in her lap as she caressed his hair. The girl lay down on a blanket sleeping. Aisha longed for that kind of life but Hassan said his devotion to the prophet and mosque usurped any dreams of children. But within Aisha’s womb fate lay soon to be released upon their marital world.
Ahmed stepped off the streetcar at Canal Street and held Aisha’s hand as she followed him. They walked under a brilliant blue sky with puffy clouds floating lazily overhead. Tourists walked by in herds making their procession. They passed through the crowd together on their own journey. As they approached Jackson Square the sensual beauty of a woman in a tight floral print summer dress made Aisha giddy. A woman sat getting sketched by an artist. Ahmed put his arm around Aisha’s waist as they walked toward the Progresso store. Aisha’s body felt so warm and supple to Ahmed in his embrace.
They walked into the store and smelled the rich aroma of Middle Eastern spices and food. Aisha’s mouth watered and she yearned to taste the savory cuisine. She picked out some hummus, falafel, and moussaka in cans. Aisha knew Ahmed and the boy or girl in her womb would love these dishes. They ordered vegetarian muffulettas dripping with spiced mozzarella cheese, olives, green peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic.
As they sat eating, Ahmed gazed at her. He loved watching her devour the sandwich. She licked her ruby lips and he longed to lick them for her. Everything she did, even eating, was done with such erotic sensuality that Ahmed felt the fire of arousal in his loins. He reached across the table and brushed locks of hair from her forehead. Then he traced her lips with his fingertip. She sighed so passionately, he felt a tremor of throbbing deep in his manhood. He wanted her so badly, more than life itself. It was then that their shared smile reflected the osmosis of a hatched plan.
They left the store with Ahmed carrying their bag of groceries. They passed in front of St. Louis Cathedral where a group of reggae musicians played old Bob Marley tunes. Aisha had learned to love American music as she had learned to crave the glow of freedom, which these women all around her basked in.
They passed through Pirates Alley and onto Orleans Ave. The buildings had luxuriant ferns falling across their iron lacework balconies. A plan unfolded in Aisha’s mind of how they would gain their freedom.
They walked into a health food store. Aisha asked the sales girl where the saltpeter was. She led her to it on the shelf. She smiled and quipped, “Is he playing around on you?”
Aisha said, “Au contraire.”
The young woman laughed, saying, “Down boy, down. Penises tend to rove when they are not welcome! ”
Aisha laughed and patted her on the back. The girl smiled at her as they left and said, “Good luck!”
Ahmed asked Aisha what she planned to do. Aisha told him and he smiled so gratefully.
They got back to the house and Aisha began cooking. As she finished, the table was set and Aisha sprinkled the saltpeter liberally onto Hassan’s moussaka. She called him to dinner. He yelled, “Just a moment, I’m on the last chapter of my book ‘A Saudi in America’.”
Aisha replied, “the food will be cold if you take too long.”
Hassan said, “Alright, cold moussaka isn’t to my taste.”
Ahmed and Aisha sat at the table waiting for Hassan’s arrival. They eagerly waited for fifteen minutes and he finally came in, his hair tousled. Aisha said, “Hassan I fixed this moussaka just for you. I know it is your favorite.”
He smiled and sat down. His rapacity was evident as he devoured the dish with gusto. After dinner, he looked sleepy. Aisha said, “Why don’t you take a nap, Hassan? You look so tired.”
He grunted, “Yes I think I will. Why don’t you join me? The marital bed is lonely without you.”
She led Hassan by the hand into the bedroom. She shed her robe baring her chrysalis. She began massaging Hassan’s tired muscles. He lay on his back and she lay beside him on the bed. She was recreating him, giving him a new life. Deep in his soul, he would be changed, his identity submerging under her sure hands.
Once bared, Hassan felt her fingers warm with sensation, as he closed his eyes, drinking her touch in. When he closed his eyes, in the darkness, he could feel her form like a blind person relearning her beauty through tactile senses. But though Hassan felt her heat he could not rise to the occasion.
With her tongue, she followed the trail of body dew down his stomach to his navel. She lingered there, teasing him with intimations of deeper pleasures to come. Then she continued her journey, brushing down his hara, his lower abdomen. She completed the journey, arriving at the spaghetti noodle that simply would not budge.
Memories have a certain pull and hers brought back the bliss of lost innocence on her honeymoon with Hassan. Therefore out of irrepressible kindness toward the man who wed her she bore down on his flaccidity with her tongue with the fervor of a nurse doing CPR on a man dead set to feel his pulse. Her rolling storm clouds of her fear had dissolved.
Suddenly Aisha heard Hassan curse. “What potion did you give me, witch?”
Aisha trembled with fear. She sat beside him on the bed and said, “I didn’t want any Kodak memories of you poking me with that thing or God forbid spelunking. As long as we share the marital bed I need insurance. Hassan, you and I weren’t destined to be together. We have to part. It is God’s will. I bear a child which may very well not be yours. Surely you don’t want to spend your time fathering a kid when your calling is the priesthood.”
Hassan shook with rage. He raised his finger and said, “If this child was conceived under my roof then he or she is mine!” Hassan looked exhausted. His hair was wild and his eyes red. He said, “I will send you back to Syria. You have no choice.”
Aisha said, “Who’s gonna make me?”
He raised his finger and held it up crooked jabbing the air and pointed at her. He said, “I will!”
She spoke soothingly, softly. “Try me. Hassan, this is a free country. You have no power over me anymore.”
He slumped back into his chair looking defeated. Aisha rose from the bed and approached him. She stood over him and ran her fingers through his scalp. She said, “Hassan, don’t you remember how much you needed your mother when you were young?”
Hassan grabbed her hand gripping it firmly. He said, “But you have betrayed me! This child is my own flesh and blood. How can I let you raise him outside of our home?”
Aisha knelt beside him and kissed his hand. She said, “Hassan, I did a prenatal paternity test. Ahmed is most definitely the father. We can give the boy the love which you never got as a child. I know your parents never gave you the love you needed so desperately. But these children need to be loved.”
“So it shall be. If it is a boy name him Hassan.”
Aisha replied, “The test showed he is a boy and he will bear your name proudly, as his Godfather.”
Hassan said, “Whenever you dine on fig preserves think of me.”
Aisha replied, “Hassan when we got married I was beaming with pride to be the bride of a future priest. Remember I called you my Hawk. You will always be my Hawk.”
Aisha dressed and left Hassan alone in the room. They slept in a motel in Algiers on the west bank of the Mississippi River.
Epilogue
Later their son was five years old. They walked him on the Algiers levee on a beautiful spring day. Suddenly he got the urge to swim. He ran down the levee and treaded water across the river. Ahmed dove in the muddy water in hot pursuit of his son. Aisha did the breaststroke to save her boy. To their amazement, a paddle wheeler passed overhead with no apparent crew like the Flying Dutchman. Wonder upon wonders their son levitated onto the suspended boat and scampered into a room.
As his parents swam below life preservers were thrown down which they wore as invisible sailors hoisted them aboard. They followed their son’s path into the ghost ship. There was their son grown up into a young man. He was accompanied by a young woman whom he did the Charleston with on the ballroom floor. He said, “Mom and Dad join in the fun and cut a rug.”
Ahmed looked astonished like he had arrived at some strange NASA experiment in antigravity designed by a fan of the Philip José Farmer ‘Riverboat’ book. When they went to the sleeping quarters a bellhop said, “You won’t need those earth clothes here.”
Aisha asked, “What will we wear?”
The bellhop replied, “You will find much dispensable.”
Aisha asked, “What can we do without here?”
The bellhop said, “Once you are naked, touch yourself and you will get a surprise.”
“What do you guys have against clothes?”
“Garments have their place but not for making love.”
“Do we look in need of sex training?”
“Ma’am this bonds your souls for your next life. It is the superglue of future marriage.”
Aisha said, “So whoopie is nuptial airplane glue?”
The bellhop replied, “Just insurance, a dose of animal magnetism can’t hurt. The science of astral navigation hasn’t been perfected. You two aren’t averse to sharing a bed together? We could place you in separate rooms.”
Aisha said, “Heavens no! Please, don’t infer my curiosity as reluctance. This girl won’t turn down a roll in the hay with her man. Proceed.”
They lay together like newlyweds on their honeymoon. Aisha followed the bellhop’s advice and discovered her hymen intact. She said, “Ahmed, I am a virgin again.”
Ahmed replied, “Feel me. I am no longer circumcised.”
Aisha answered, “Well, christen me with that poker until my newfound virginity is no more.”
As she lifted her hips, inviting him to follow her into paradise she pulled her panties aside revealing her Goddess beauty in its entire splendor. Her body was so full and womanly and he ran his hands down her sides and to her hips. She gently kneaded his flesh, molding his luscious form with her hands like a potter molding clay. She felt like a sculptress, with him her masterwork. She pressed her hands into his body, imprinting him with her touch. Her moons were beautifully proportioned like the statue of Aphrodite radiating the divine sensuality of a celestial being.
Their bodies entwined slowly, languorously as he grew weak with longing for her. His mouth found the tips of her peaks, trailing pleasure across the hardened rosebuds with his tongue.
Ahmed ran his hand along Aisha’s bare thigh, arcing up to her rounded hips. His hands curved around her hips and his fingers sunk into the firm flesh of her derriere, clasping her moons in his loving grasp.
Aisha’s desire swelled like a surging tide and she felt herself carried along by the current, her body on fire with Ahmed’s touch. His hand glided around her pelvis, finding that place of original magic where life originates. She answered his sensual massage, nurturing him with her caress. Ahmed entered the secret place within her, the source of her deepest pleasure.
Aisha’s hips rose up to meet his hand, undulating like gentle ocean waves lapping her shore.
Freedom rang from the liberty bell of her Mons to the declaration of independence in her moan. Her American dream was to hallucinate herself as lady liberty dressed as a harlot, wrapped in red, white, and blue lingerie. She was a statuesque siren waking into a red light fantasy able to perform a miracle on an impotent John. But she crowned his good with her womanhood as if Florida were raised to point north.
Then the concierge said, “You are now to disembark where you will adopt your new citizenship.” Then it became abundantly clear that the boat was a transfer ship for passengers on their commute to their next life.
