Unrelenting carnivore of the carnal
Taste of Fresh Farsi Feline dripping from his jowls
Continuous, constant, craving for sweet Persian cat meat
Thigh, breast, neck, mignon, or rump steak
All meat, All meet, All Bone.
An opening ode to the Iranian male. Where his North American, (not South) or European cousin have a scientifically measured average interval between sex thoughts, to be at approximately 15 seconds. The Iranian male, like the genetic defect locking mechanism of a Pit Bull's jaw, is pretty much always thinking about sex. A 0 second interval. Whether expressed in art, film, politics, religion, including choice of clothes, cologne and his car, the modern Iranian male is focused on one thing and one thing only. Getting the Iranian woman.
Getting the girl or specifically, bedding the girl, yet more specifically, bedding an Iranian woman, is the Iranian male's singular life function. A challenge, a curse, and when successfully achieved, life's sweetest revenge.
Iranian women like the Persian cat they personify, are absolutely impossible to read. Emotion and intention, always hidden slyly and cleverly, by beautiful expression. Does she? Will she? Won't she? These are the locks on the massive emotional gates guarding a breath-sweeping inner garden. The problem is that the keys to these locks are ever changing, according to her mood. Which are too, always hidden slyly and cleverly, by beautiful expression.
So here on this side, we have the Iranian man. A wild carnal-ivore, jaws dripping with desire, pacing along the gates, at once growling and whimpering, desperate to get in, to sink his teeth into soft pink flesh. Just there. Just barely out of reach. Inside the garden, always in full glorious view, we have a softly purring Iranian woman, slowly licking the honey off her spoon, flicking her tail dangerously in and out of the bars of the gate.
Every now and then, whether intentionally or by accident, as payback, or to simply satisfy her own sensual hunger, the Iranian woman unlocks the gates to the garden. Well, more or less, she merely leaves the gates open. She offers herself to the gale that sweeps in with a grin, flicking tongue caressing every single inch of her body, lapping up each drop of pleasure before it can hit the floor. Twice. She transforms and becomes that Farshchian Pari in a persian miniature painting, sleepy eyes, lashes sweeping, opening and closing in rhythm. Finally reluctant and willing to submit to her now visible pent up ecstasy. A spiritual submission to his will. An undeniable call of the wild.
A brief moment of honesty. In that split second that feels like eternity, there is a moment of fleeting truth. Between fantasy and reality, time stands still. Just on the other side of fantasy, behind pleasure, there is undeniable, pure, love. The second hand sweeps past the single tick of it, and he suddenly sits up, curses, pecks a kiss on her eye, and suggests that she should make his favorite khoresht for lunch, as he runs out the door to play soccer with his friends. After he's safely gone, she gets up, brushes her hair, finds her Vogue, finds her keys, grabs an Apple from the kitchen bowl, and as she reads an article about this season's look, she walks slowly to the gates of the garden, holding the Apple in her teeth as she turns the page, and the keys in the locks.
An Iranian man is a dog built and bred to chase pussy.
An Iranian woman is the cat that loves torturing and toying with the dog.
Every now and then, a dog will have his day.
A cat almost never gets caught.
Unless she wants to.
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