The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (26 page)

He kept a villa at the beach. A villa bought with oil that he lived in all by himself. Massive tiled rooms, ceiling fans, hand-carved furniture, hand-women silk rugs. The constant hum of the air conditioner in the background. Servants came and went unseen, discreet as a tampon. The place was within walking distance to the Jumeirah Beach Hotel, where we often had dinner. I’m glad it was walking distance, since I hated getting into a car with him. He drove his Range Rover (not a Merc – the police drive Mercs!) through the streets like a madman. Though so did everyone else, cutting in and out of traffic, running up the bumper in front, flinging arms to and fro in exasperation at the sluggish traffic. All this while maintaining a steady stream of Arabic obscenities. There are probably more men in the Middle East whose mothers mated with dogs than anywhere else in the world.

He was distantly related to the Maktoum family, the rulers of Dubai since the early 1800s. Although nearly everyone who’s wealthy seems to be related to them in one way or another. He always smelled of sandalwood and rose – of that Arab perfume worn by men and women. He liked to take the little wand from the ornate glass bottle and dab the oil onto me, onto my wrists, behind my ears and knees, the crook of my elbows, in that snug place where inner thigh joins the flesh of my sex. He’d whisper to me that I smelled better than any perfume as his fingers smoothed the amber-colored liquid into my skin, rubbing it in until it was no longer oily. He liked to dab a bit of perfume onto my clitoris, which he’d take a lot of time over, rubbing in circular motions and causing it to heat up from his touch and from the oil itself, not stopping until he had me squealing and shaking with orgasm. I had no protection from his fingers, since I’d taken to removing my pubic hair shortly after our affair began. Not to be the trendy American sporting a Brazilian (which always looks to me like a cunt smoking a cigar), but because of Islamic codes of cleanliness. They make a lot of sense, when you think about it. Besides, he asked me to. How could I refuse? How could I refuse
anything
he asked of me?

In the afternoons after we made love, I’d remain lying in his bed as the call to prayer started up again – a Muslim rave blasting from the loudspeakers at the Jumeirah Mosque, which has a Starbucks across from it. Get in a few prayers, then nip next door for a no-foam double latte. Islam keeps you busy, I’ll say that much for it. With wake-up calls at five a.m. you’ve no need for an alarm clock. He would spread his prayer mat over the cool floor tiles and kneel upon it, still naked and dripping from me, as he began bowing toward Mecca. I suspected his lack of attire might not have been entirely respectful, but who was I to point this out to a good Muslim? I remained still, silent, not even wanting my breath to disrupt him from his link with Allah. Because there are some lines you just don’t cross. Not even in Dubai.

When he finished, he’d look up and see me reclining on my side, nude. Like the famous painting, he’d say. The Odalisque.

I am his Odalisque.

With lovemaking and praying out of the way, we’d indulge in an afternoon snack. He’d order me to stay in bed while he prepared something in his cavernous kitchen. I didn’t argue. I was still glowing from his flesh, his saliva, the heat simmering over the sandy earth beyond the high walls surrounding his villa. He’d return a short while later carrying a hammered gold tray containing plates of grapes, black olives, labneh, feta and hallumi cheese, and cucumbers, along with some Lebanese sweets. We mustn’t forget the sweets! He’d hand-feed me bits of cheese, followed by bits of cucumber, following it up with a spoonful of thick yogurty labneh that stung my tongue with its tanginess. Sometimes he tipped the spoon, and a blob landed on my belly. A perfect mountain of creamy desert snow. He bent down to lick it away, his dark head moving lower as his tongue searched out places where the labneh could not have possibly gone, the silky black hairs from his beard and mustache tickling the insides of my thighs, which I’d thoughtfully parted for him. He opened me up with his thumbs, taking his dessert where he found it, the sweets he’d brought into bed with us now forgotten.

Do we have a future? I asked.

Inshaallah
, he answered. If Allah is willing.

We’d go dancing – the Kasbar or even the Planetarium, where we’d rub up against each other like two cats in heat. Exotic desert cats. Music thundering in our ears, lights flashing, no one watching and everyone watching. Maybe go hear some jazz at Issimo. Sit outside at a shisha joint sharing a pipe, arguing good-naturedly about whether we should try strawberry or green apple next time. The smooth smoke slipping down our throats in the warm night air. Just as he had slipped down my throat only moments before, his elixir as sweet as the tobacco.

He took me shopping, buying me the latest clothes the European designers had to offer. He took me to the gold souk in Deira, where he had me try on gold headdresses. I was blinded by gold – everywhere where I looked it glittered at me, showing off its extravagant beauty. I didn’t wear a headscarf, so he had to fit the dangly strands over my hair, which fortunately is straight and rests neatly against my skull. He whispered that he wanted to drape my naked body with strands of gold, place gold rings on my fingers and toes, then burn frankincense and myrrh in homage to me. As he said this, his tongue tickled my earlobe and I shivered, remembering where it had been only that morning. How deeply it had penetrated before he replaced it with his penis, taking me from behind. The Arabic way, he called it. Arabic birth control, more like. Not that I complained. He made it into an art form. I couldn’t bend over far enough for him, spread myself wide enough for him. Anything. Just ask. Just take. I am your desert houri.

I could tell that the old merchant with his clicking worry beads didn’t approve of us, but since the headdress cost about forty grand in American money, he wasn’t about to complain. You can’t be serious, I’d said, smiling, my mind calculating dirham into dollar. I wouldn’t be so gauche as to mention cost, but the thought of wearing something this expensive made my bowels knot up. Thieves would chop off your head in the States to steal something like this. Hell, people were killed for only a few dollars back home. And they say the Middle East is dangerous. Maybe the State Department should reevaluate its warnings to Americans traveling abroad and instead issue warnings that they aren’t safe at home.

In the end he didn’t buy it for me. Maybe it was stupid, but I graciously talked him out of it, squeezing his hand affectionately as the Abra ferried us across Dubai Creek to Bur Dubai. I thought it would make me feel like a kept woman if I accepted a gift like this. Now I realize how shortsighted that was. How stupid. At least I would’ve been left with something in the end. I could have always tried to sell it back to the man at the gold souk or one of the other merchants. Even if I’d only got half its value, it would have been enough. But I had my pride. An Odalisque has her pride.

Of course he played golf. What self-respecting Emirati doesn’t? Several times a week he met up with friends for a round or two. He never asked if I wanted to join in. Not that I’d have wanted to, though it might have been nice to be invited, especially since I’d already met most of his golfing buddies. He did take me to the camel races though. He owned several camels and more often than not they won. I’d sit miserably beside him under an oversized umbrella, sweltering in the desert heat as camels loped along the track, their sun-blackened jockeys hitting them with sticks to urge them quicker and quicker toward the finish line. If it happened that his camel was gaining the lead, he’d lean in close to me, his fingers stealing beneath my gauzy skirt, heading toward their own finish line. My thighs would be slippery with perspiration, but I couldn’t open them, since we were quite visible sitting alongside the track. I could hear his breath laboring with the excitement of the race and perhaps with the excitement of touching me, his fingers working my clitoris, thrusting inside me, swimming in a pool of my sweat and my own excitement from what he was doing to me. The farther ahead his camel reached, the quicker his fingers moved and I’d climax just as his camel passed the finish line. I could see that his thighs had begun to jerk beneath his dishdasha, making me suspect that he, too, had come. Though whether it was from winning the race or from touching me I could never be certain.

For Eid he took me to a beauty salon to get my hands decorated with henna. Beautiful intricate designs that put any ring or bracelet to shame. Graceful floral and vine patterns that performed a sinuous dance all the way down to my fingertips. He got off on the sight of my henna-painted hand pumping him to orgasm. He even made me wear a shaila. Nothing else, just this stern black headscarf as my hands – which he’d tied together with the agal from his ghutra – worked him to a frothy conclusion. My friend in Abu Dhabi had neglected to tell me the Emiratis were a kinky bunch as well.

The henna faded. And so did his desire for me.

He tired of his Western woman. His Odalisque. I suppose it was a matter of practicality. It was time for him to get married. To an Arab woman. To have Arab children. I wasn’t the former, I couldn’t offer him the latter. There was no argument. Just tears. Mine.

They said they’d cheer me up – take me out for a night on the town. Dubai has a swinging nightlife, if you know where to look. They were just some guys who’d come around to visit sometime, whom we’d meet for dinner, share a shisha with. Golfing buddies, camel racing cohorts. His friends. My friends. Or so I thought.
Salaam Ale-Koum
they’d always greet me, and I’d
Walaikum-asalaam
them right back. Young Arab men with dishdashas and black beards and mustaches. Going to a night-club filled with rich Arabs – the Kasbar, maybe. At least that’s where I figured we were going. Instead they took me somewhere I’d never been.

To a house off Sheikh Zayed Road. A villa like the one I’d spent so many days and nights in, simultaneously shivering and sweating with desire and pleasure, my sighs a fusion of English and Arabic as I reached toward my black-eyed love. They seemed surprised when I pushed their hands away, slapped off their offending fingers. I’d slept with their friend – why wouldn’t I sleep with them? They didn’t know I was an Odalisque. Their dark scowls burned me as they put me in a taxi, threw some dirham at the driver, who smirked knowingly, making me feel like the Filipina hooker from Spinney’s. He’d driven whores home from a job before. The sun was already high over the tree-barren city, judging me although I’d done nothing to be judged for.

I wanted to tell him about his so-called friends, but I knew he wouldn’t be interested. He was gone from me now. I even thought of taking revenge, maybe saying things had happened that hadn’t really happened just to show them I wouldn’t be disrespected like that. But I’d heard how women were treated, even when they were telling the truth.
Adulterous behavior
they call it.

Here no one’s interested in the truth. Not a woman’s truth, a Western woman. A former Odalisque. It’s all about power and money, where you’re from, what you have dangling between your legs. Guess it’s not that different from America, when you think about it.

I once did a very bad thing in the name of Love. Love has always been a bitch to me and I thought I could fool it.

I always took the romantic stuff very seriously, getting to know the guys before allowing a first kiss, becoming friends before being lovers. I built up rose-coloured and scented scenes in my head of how Mr Right and I would be so happy just sharing a dinner in a fancy restaurant and playing footsie under the long starched tablecloth. But every time a prospective Mr Right appeared in sight, things went terribly wrong. So I kind of gave up my hazy dreaming and went for a fun-of-the-moment thing.

I met Lenny at a Valentine’s bash in a club. I was twenty-eight at the time and single, as I have been for most of my life. My friend Jenni brought her boyfriend, and he in turn brought a couple of friends. I knew everyone else; we were all at the same drama school. I was drinking as if it were my last chance and flying across the dance floor imagining I had wings. I didn’t pay any particular attention to the new guys since I’d given up on meeting a potential husband or even getting laid. We hadn’t been properly introduced as I got to the club late, fought my way in through the pushing crowd by the door, got a drink and tried to spot a familiar face on the dance floor. Jenni was already twirling around with half-a-dozen guys, and so I joined them. We danced like crazy, blood pumping at our temples and ecstasy filling our hearts.

After an hour or two of hot dancing I had to pee – the fact, which I announced shamelessly in the hope that someone would direct me to the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard a whoosh and everything went blurry below me, as my very gentle dance partner scooped me up in his arms and carried me, still swaying to the music, to the john. By the entrance he put me down and beaming from ear to ear said, “I am Leonard. Lenny to my friends.”

“Suzie. Thanks for the ride,” I grinned. “Got to go . . .”

When I returned to the floor, Leonard had got a table, drinks and ice cream sundaes. We savoured the treats and the buzz, chatting away till two o’clock in the morning. He pulled up my socks for me and retied my boots before we left the club. He hugged me tight as we walked to the subway station. In the dim lights of the train he held me, staring deep into my eyes as if trying to hook up my soul. He got me safe to my door, gently kissed me good night and left his phone number in the palm of my hand. I think I was too drunk to appreciate all his sweetness.

However, the next day I called the number. We went for a coffee and walked along the river. He was exciting in his simplicity; he told me stories of his childhood, of the plays he’d written, and I felt as if I had known him all my life.

His mother, he said, was obsessed with animals. She had a collection of nearly two dozen pets: eight dogs of different breeds, four cats, five finches, a parrot, a guinea pig, a couple of rabbits, a ferret and a porcupine – all in her one-bedroom apartment.