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Napoleon mon amour
That is how much I love him. I rather see him with her more often than less without.


November 8, 2005

It is difficult to write about love, when in love, and not sound pathetically corny.  It is difficult to name feelings and sort them out into neat paragraphs. 

I have had an affair with the subject of this essay for more than a year now.  It actually started four years ago.  But at the time I was in love with someone else and I just saw it as a physical turn in a long friendship.

Last year, when my husband and I separated and I came to Paris, my present love and I started a sexual affair.  He was seriously involved with his present girlfriend who is more like a wife and I was just breaking up with my husband.  We spent many secret two-hour rendezvous having great sex.  We also met socially with his girlfriend and friends.  I was still living in Iran and saw other people; one, a professor who was killed earlier this spring in Paris, was becoming serious.  So my present lover saw me when I came here or when he came to Iran.  But once in the same town we saw a lot of each other. Now I live here and I see him not as much as I want but at least once, or more like twice, a week. 

I love him.  I really tried to keep it light.  He, well versed in such matters, made sure he kept me from, god forbid, ever hoping for anything more than the late-night sex sessions that we had. But alas, for me, it is impossible to have great sex with a person and not eventually end up thinking about them most of the time, which is what I consider being in love. 

It is not difficult to fall in love with one’s lover.  It is especially easy to fall in love when the lover has been a good friend and buddy for a long time and when one is coming out of a bad marriage, feels alone and emotionally drained.  I know him and he knows me.  We were friends before we started fucking each other.

I try hard to please him.  I hardly ever dump my problems on him.  We have almost never really had a fight or even an argument.  I keep what I have with him free of all strain.  It is as though I feel obligated to only give him pleasure.  I am emotionally, and more so, erotically, his slave.  I will do anything for him.  What is amazing is that I am happy to be in this position.  I feel safe with him.  It is as though I was playing a dangerous sex-game with a partner who is more experienced and trust worthy than even myself.  I know he will never let me hurt myself too much. 

Our love making seems to keep getting better -- to me at least.  It is very easy to be blind in these things and delude oneself into believing that one sees a relationship the same way the other does.  That, I want to emphasize, is not what I want to happen here, so let it be known, dear readers,  that I am only expressing my own feelings and in no way have any claim to know what my lover, the subject of this essay, feels or thinks. This is an account of how I feel, no more.

It is wild sex that we have.  Both of us shedding all inhibition and diving together into a whirlwind of reciprocal desire where every yearning gesture is tended with eager attention.  Our love making takes on its own life and carries the two of us into a space suspended in time where pleasure wraps us in its velveteen folds.  My love for him is so entwined with smells and textures, gests and words that, though deep, it remains stubbornly physical and earthy. 

I love his smell, his touch, his taste, the low moan that seems to come deep from his gut, the words he whispers in my ears, the very rhythm of his heart that I have held, so often, so close, to mine, it felt like they were one, big one, beating in stereo.  

I love the way his penis finds and enters me with the confidence and ease of a habitué.  I love the way it grows in my vagina and mouth or when I wrap my fingers around it.  I love the shaft on the top, the round circle of his perfect circumcision.  I love running my tongue over the head and down the length of his penis and then taking it whole into my mouth while curling my tongue over it.

I love his cry, of ‘joon’, every time I take him into my mouth.  I love the way he kisses me, not too wet and vulgar not too soft and without umph.  I love the way he devours my breasts sucking at them desperately like he has not seen any in so long. 

He is short and has a baby face.  He is not good looking but has a sweet face and is incredibly skinny.  Some times it feels like he weighs as much as one of my thighs.  He has a bit of a Napoleon complex which makes him a better lover.  It is as though each time he makes love he grows a few inches taller.  What he lacks in physique he makes up for in skill.  That is why he loves sex.  He is so good at it that it makes him feel taller.

But so does his girlfriend. 

She is tall and skinny and blond.  The kind of girl that if you have on your arms everyone will look at you.  She is forty something.  Definitely looks not younger than me.  She is divorced with a teenage son and works for an airliner.  When they are together they seem very much in love.  He calls her ‘amour’ among other terms of endearment, which sound, so much more endearing in French!  He does it even in front of me.  I die each time I see him be nice to her.  But I rather see more of him than not.  That is how much I love him. I rather see him with her more often than less without. It is odd but I rather like her.  In a way I rather be in my shoes than hers.  Also, she keeps an eye on him.  I would hate to have to do that.  When a man is good in bed it is more than likely that he will cheat. 

She is so completely opposite of me in every sense that I cannot even compete.  She is skinny and tall -- I am chubby (used to be fifteen kilos fatter when he and I started this!) and short (thank god for high heels).  She is prim and proper, school teacherish.  I am an old party girl who chains smokes hash joints.  We share a passion for cannabis, him and me.  I am certainly more intellectual than his girlfriend.  She is typical of Iranian men’s wives: ordinary middle-class blond kharejee with great legs. 

He is smart and knows a lot about many things.  He is kind and incredibly helpful towards his friends.  But my love for him is physical, it is about scents and smells and textures and words whispered in the heat of passion. 

Our love-making is in Persian.  It turns us both on.  It is the one advantage I have over her.  I can whisper in his ears that I want him to fuck me all night in his mother tongue.  It turns him crazy.  I love how vulgar I sound in Persian.  I love how good I am at love making.  He has turned me into a professional in bed.  I love my new found sexual confidence -- I was never this good in bed even when I was considerably thinner and younger. I love being able to give pleasure, I love being desired, I love letting him know how much I yearn him.  I love whispering encouragements in his ears and feeling his confidence grow inside me.  

Meekhamet azizam

Chee meekhaay?

Kir-e-to meekham azizam

Taa taah meekonamet

Khoob meekoni.

Khoob meedee azizam

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