WARNING: erotic content
She is lovely and she has left me … at 3.32 pm … but will return by 6.
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Taking a shit my arse smelt like Moroccan cooking – it’s true … My shit was alluring, scented with lemon and herbs and not at all offensive as it wafted into my nostrils like I was ready to eat yesterdays meal again. Tagine. That conical-clay-vase of simmering casserole: pickled lemon, tomatoes, olives, peppers, carrot and in this case fish; other times chicken with potato. Yum.
Classic Moroccan cuisine – Tagine (fish)
Talking of nice arse – Fatima, the Moroccan woman I shacked up with for 4 days in Adagir had some booty to adore … best arse this side of a Chicago blues bar.
And so how did I meet her you ask?
I was in a café on the street of Adagir’s New Talborjt district, eating dinner. A Moroccan man with a limp soon sat at the table next to me and preceded to play tunes on his cell-phone – from some pop-rock to Pink Floyd – Wish You Were Here – to trance and techno and I could see him glancing my way, hoping for my attention but I knew he was looking to sell – SOMETHING and so I ignored him and ate. But after maybe 15 minutes of this charade I heard Salaam Aleikum – thrown my way – Peace be Upon You – and so I replied with Aleikum as Salaam – And Peace be upon You – and so that was how he began to sell me hashish.
And so now a spliff … am too wasted too write … Later.
Well yuk, as the day/evening wears on and the shits become more frequent and texture-less I realize that my first bad belly maybe approaching – but I reckon it’s the alcohol, as I been really overdoing it these past days (months actually, if I include Korea) ; with Fatima shacked up in our total sex mission it was beers - at least 10 per evening – plus a bottle of whisky with Redbull, or a bottle of Tequila done in shots -across galaxies of frantic animal orgasms, of which little I remember – ouch, sex for money with little recollection only a week after – must consult my audio diary but do remember it be mad hard-porn, her licking my arse out like a lesbian starved for oral sex and our 69s were just too hungry. She drunk alongside me, glass for glass, and fucked much – cappuccino smooth skin and wired afro Rasta hair and that killer smile and arse rounded well and that Mohawk-public hair pussy that she joking pointed out matched my hairstyle; yeah, really intense. We connected like young lovers crazy on hot, inter-racial heat.
And now the summer fog from the Atlantic has come in over the desert cliffs and hill-top villages to smother the sunset in Sidi Ifni, 7:26 pm. I lock out a mosquito trying to zip in thru the patio door. It’s not hot like the other evenings; overcast mostly; here middle of summer at the western-most reaches of the Sahara nearby and … don’t know what the fuck I’m on about now … Thinking pussy, but Morocco is not Thailand.
And Morocco is how I remember it – but it’s gotten more modern in the big cities, the youth more sexy and hip but some scapes are still wretched and broken down, and then there’s the gorgeous traditional villages, and the yeah, touts and hustlers are still here annoying tourists and also many French expats have set up glossy cafés, hotels, tourist ventures – yet despite time and the march of modernity most of Morocco remains crazy and exotic like an India chaos with more edge.
Crazy things happened here with me and my last true love Robyn, back in 1991 traveling Morocco (but that’s another story) and now everything is familiar but fresh as I venture to different corners than before – that was before I got fucked-up on this smoke and thought about serious stuff like past love but I suppose it’s hard to avoid when you revisit a country for the first time in 17 years and the last time here was with her.
Time to revisit the toilet …
Acquitted … 6 injections in the butt solved what 3 courses of pills had failed to do – relieve my swollen and infected gums around my left wisdom tooth.
The very real possibility of a pulled tooth wasn’t something to excite me – what when they have to smash it from the jaw bone. I have to say that the pain was the worst I have ever experienced in my entire life: from my throat to my ears shrieking tearing that could only be dulled by a week on 24/7 super painkillers (forget aspirin or paracetamol; ineffective). But the best drug of them all was the celebratory beers I consumed that last night in Aden.
Young girl with her version of Barbie
Went to the ’sailors club’ in the old British port on the other side of the Aden volcano. It was discreet. Could buy beer and spirits inside … and there were women there !!! Without veil !!! Somalis mostly, some drinking in the smoky, worn surrounds looking out to the harbour and a supertanker gliding out in the sunset seen from where I sat at front table alone in this empty-ish place. Two Russian sailors, a few Arabs, a barmen, several women – a couple of young black babes and a few very worn out ones milling around, drawing closer to me after my 3rd can of beer.
Then entered a black-draped Yemeni – wow, look at her – eyes smiling and she sat down next to me as the English speaking Somali, Sonia – her in jeans, introduced me to Arwa. Sure she was Yemeni, from Sanaa and once married (probably to an old guy who died – because she was only 16). Anyway, I assumed they were all hostesses serving drinks and smiling at men’s jokes for a tip … but that was not the case.
Jibla: Queen Arwa’s tomb is housed in the (left) mosque
Back in the 11th century in the southern central mountain town of Jibla there was a great and benevolent queen called Arwa, who ruled wisely and justly, built schools, roads, bridges, mosques, made last peace and ushered in a period of great prosperity for her people and even today, she is still spoken of very highly; I know this cos I visited her city and tomb within the mosque some weeks back and now I had this young beauty of her namesake next to me and offering her body.What was I to do; the oblivious.
The Arabian Nights fantasy was not disappointing; mutually ecstatic, one of the highlights of my entire sex life … watching her flip off her black cloth to reveal her skimpy nightie and our embrace of tight-hugged dancing to Arabic music on the TV before we got bed-bound … but I will leave the rest of the encounter to your imagination as it will get too-beautifully pornographic.
It was a very weird situation: a secret taxi in the club grounds left for a secret hotel, checking into the hotel while busting for a piss and her secreted in the side door, her riding veiled in the taxi backseat as me in the front rode across our hot, humid night.
With this steamy incident in mind – theoretically, I could be tried under Sharia Law – as I had joked about earlier but it was not meant to be. Insha Allah.
Ancient mud-skyscapers of Shibam, Wadi Hadramawt
… I am now in the searing desert in Sayun, in the great Wadi Hadramawt – the longest canyon in Arabia where villages of mud-brick tower houses and mosque minarets cluster amid palms and fertile fields running along the vast desert floor, a few miles either side the endless, mighty, canyon cliffs of hard rock guarding against the hostile plateau above and all around.
I came here in a shared taxi – crammed with two women and their dozen kids from Al-Mulkala, the famous Hadramawt region port on the hellishly-humid Arabian Sea coast, five hours, up the mountain pass and then across the empty plateau of howling hot winds, here – where Freya Stark, the lone English woman travelled by donkey to Wadi Hadramawt back in 1935 & 1938 (check her books). My hotel window looks to the white, towered, fortified palace of Sayun, where she’d stayed as a guest of the Sultan.
Looking after dad’s AK-47, Jibla
Wadi Hadramawt has a long history: think the Queen of Sheba stories and the famous frankincense route from the coast of Oman and Yemen across the deserts of Arabia to Rome or over by sea to India and beyond and you’re half-way there.
Amid the branching wadis (dry river beds/ canyons) off mighty Hadramawt hide caves and art dating from the Stone Age and ruins from civilisations that they call the cradle of Arabia : 12th – 1st centuries BC cities that grew very rich from the frankincense that the – entire known – world craved so much.
Today I spoke – briefly – to a old Javanese-descended Arab here as I ate my fried tuna and rice at a local restaurant for back in the middle-AD centuries merchants from Hadramawt had sailed to India, Singapore, and even Java (Indonesia) exposing new regions to Islam and continuing their trade.
And talking of ancient trade: I am mighty glad that “the world’s oldest profession” exists – albeit, small-time & super discreet – here in the lands of Islam. It appears the saying – “people are people”, is indeed true the world over.
Love, flowers & Arabian fantasies – MRP
People often ask why I sleep with prostitutes – so I’ll tell you.
Okay, I love travel and I like sex too much – for sure, and yes, encounters with strangers excites me. But simply it’s the effortless transaction of sex and company (and often real-fun) for money, sure, that’s the business, and that’s the key for me. I like to loan the lady’s time – using freelance, not brothel-bonded chicks – and treat them as a girlfriend for the night; and not as rent for the hour piece of meat so that we can ease into each other over drinks and smoke and laugh and relate, rather than the typical, mechanical, launderette love of a hurried solitary orgasm. Fuck that … no fun there; finished once, and bye bye, Mr.
Anyway, for me this beats what the average male does: going to a club, a pub, a restaurant and spying someone they like and then chasing-falsely for the catch. Yet, everyone I speak to on this subject says that they like the chase. Both male and female. But me, I don’t feel this way.
You’re in a hot club, where it’s a market of sexuality and macho idiot male competition, where you meet a chick, often shouting inanely to converse above the music, to have two minutes to impress and two minutes to keep her attention before she floats towards another offer.
Basically, I can’t be bothered with the primitive ritual of male impress-succeed, dance right, spin the shit right, look right and act abnormal in the pursuit of sex; and too often, conversation is hollow laughter and at the end of it she says: I’ve a boyfriend or have to work early tomorrow, or simply, nice to meet you but I’m not interested. And even after the chase and after the great deed, you both know that by morning you’ll not be compatible, anyway.
Why waste the energy? Why tempt the exasperation of failure or play dumb mind-games – which, is not me – when all I really want is the sure-guarantee of a nice, kissy chat, the feminine scent, a cuddle & orgasm(s); an agreeable outcome that keeps most men happy …
[ Thoughts from Colonia del Plata - URUGUAY, 2002, after partying intensively in Buenos Aires for many weeks ]
Was wanting to sleep but had a hot arse too close to my face … she sleeps as the traffic rakes the street downstairs as I lust over this bottle-blond’s varnished nails, her lightly tanned neck and wrists chained in gold – maybe I’m not her first customer … maybe it’s not love, afterall.
I can remember – bits, anyway, of last night; she sucks so well – but not her name. Half a dozen beers, a bottle of red and half a litre of whisky and not even a headache now – yeah, age has blessed me with a tolerance to alcohol: getting old’s fun.
I’m 36 soon. An old cunt (or maybe, just a cunt). In a recent e-mail Mum asked me how I intended to celebrate my birthday and I had to reply nothing different: Drunk and in bed with a babe (it’s not my birthday for 2 weeks but I thought I get in shape for the event …).
Been doing a lot of soul searching these last few days. You know, age and getting old and what’s my life about shit.
Thought it time for a change … Surprise. I’ve found Jesus – thought I read the bible this evening – yeah right; or maybe I’ll marry this bleeding blond – intense fucking bought her period on prematurely – beside me. Wrong again TV game-show losers, not you, my friends, but the glamour-hungry wankers on TV which I have with the sound down; yeah, I’ve finally found the meaning to life: to CONTINUE.
With that insight clarified I drink another beer on this fine non-stop afternoon… and solemnly swear, to continue to be a toxic prick addicted to sex, stimulants and wandering. MUM: a thought: maybe you should censor this for the grandparents: I feel it may get …
Check the flesh. Today - “I shot the sun … “ yeah, right. Actually I’m hallucinating. BUT I believe I’ve been in Buenos Aires a month and have been a total slut (Do sluts pay for sex? Cos I’ve been cashing in the pesos rapidly in hope of getting automatic entry to heaven, you know, my charitable, selfless work supporting women internationally … )
Ahh, yeah … Actually all the chicks I’ve been with here have been pros. And all of them have been very loving … I remember her name now, cos she’s just left at 4.13 pm. Shayla, a some-what Arabic name. She wants to ring me … PLEASE, yeah, habitacion viente-ocho (Room 28). Before she left, like the other ladies, she cleaned my room: ashtray emptied, condoms disposed from the floor, even, folding my clothes. A very inclusive service – indeed (house keeper and lover).
I met the last lady in the same club as Shayla, she’s an exotic dancer for it’s an Arabic / Greek-theme night – sex, not disco – club. The other woman, Angelina, has left yesterday for her native Brazil and wanted to take me with her … tempted but probably would’ve been disasterous (reading my past serious relationships with loving but crazy pros: RE: Erica, Indonesia.). Both ladies are bottle-blondes with dark eyes (and shaven pubes) as was the one before these two.
I’m seeing a trend here … I usually adore dark skin and dark hair … but all the woman here are white and of Spanish or largely Italian origin. In fact BsAs is the whitest place on earth: I’ve counted four blacks, 2 dozen indigenous brown Andeans and a million whites in a month in this city of 11 million. Surely, the least colored city in the world (in the large downtown districts, anyway).
Last week I tried to get it together by leaping from a small plane. SKY-DIVING. Tumbling, falling -and freaking, yeah, floating fast at 210km/hour for 5000 feet … parachuting the last 5000 to land fuckin’ ecstatic. Wonderful hit, but it didn’t last long. I believe I’ll take the slow, emphasis slow, ferry across the River Plate to Montevideo, Uruguay – soon, another country to kick my latest mind-less addiction.
Must leave Buenos Aires, where the prettiest – white – woman in the world reside (forget my raving about Santiago de Chile some months ago; BsAs is it. Immaculate bodies and supermodel looks – pity I land all the fat chicks – not really, anyway, Latino women are the true goddesses). Heaven help me in Rio; God save me in Colombia … (where life’s, and the powder’s too cheap and the girls too easy). Ahh, fuck it: life’s to be explored …
Went to a football – soccer – match in a huge stadium of manic supporters: I have the Latino fever; the passion.
At 36 I’ve resolved to go all out … Breasts or bust … Having not slept for days (or is that, daze) you can dismiss this ramble as shit; maybe, one day, I’ll grow up.
My 36th birthday resolution: NEVER SURRENDER (or not for another year, at least).
Love flowers & &&, &, something real sexy – MRP
PS: Maybe I should write a book titled: ‘How to Impress Whores, DESPITE Having a Beer Gut’
