But Miles always loved my body and made me feel good about myself, so there must be something that’s turning him away from me.
I can feel this whole idea failing before it even gets going! And I’ve still to make dinner and have essays to mark for tomorrow. I’ll be dead in bed before I can even think about reading Miles a story. But I’ve really got to try, and my first story is so sweet!
Around 9 pm
“Communication.”
“What?” Miles had a mouthful of lasagne.
“I said, communication.”
He looked at me and then glanced at his phone for the football results.
“Imo says it’s all about communication.”
“What is?”
“Our problem.”
“What problem? And what’s Imo got to do with it?”
“I went over to her house for coffee on Sunday afternoon when you were golfing and we talked about things.”
He put down his phone and looked at me with his smokey grey eyes. He frowned and my stomach gave a little lurch as the lines around his eyes creased; he seemed so vulnerable. I felt guilty for discussing our sex life with someone else.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
“Oh, Miles. I’ve been trying for weeks.”
I was on the brink of crying and I am almost in tears as I write this now, remembering how hurt he looked. The two of us in the dining room trying to find the right words. I grabbed his hand across the table.
“I love you so much and I want you to be happy. I want you to desire me, Miles.”
I find this kind of honest talk quite difficult. My upbringing was of a very down to earth, working class nature, with little room for sentiment and soppy emotions. Sweet talk is embarrassing for me but I had learned some very deep emotions with Laurent and he had taught me how to be naughty. I had never shown this side of myself to Miles. It isn’t really me but perhaps it was time for extreme measures. I continued to push the point.
“I am going to be Sheherazade. I am going to read you a story every night for the next 101 days, until the New Year.”
He smiled and my stomach lurched again.
“This sounds like one of Imogen’s charades. Are you going to dress up like an Arabian princess and do I have to kill you in the morning?” He wasn’t taking me seriously.
“I’ll dress up if you want me too! And you won’t want to kill me because you’ll be desperate to hear the next story!”
He leaned over and kissed me softly. I could taste the Chablis on his lips.
“You don’t have to go to such lengths, Beth.”
“You have to be honest Miles, you’ve hardly touched me for weeks. I do need to go to such lengths, and I will!”
I showed him the Diary. He could see I was serious.
“Okay, I’ll humour you, but I can’t see how a story can make any difference.”
“Just wait and see.”
“Okay, will we finish the wine first?”
11.10 pm
And so we went to bed, a little drunk, Miles smirking at the ridiculousness of it all and me nervous as anything. What if I just embarrassed myself? He made himself comfortable, head back on the pillows, eyes closed. I asked him if he wanted a blindfold and he snorted in disbelief! Silk negligee to the ready, I read the first story.
1. “Ghassan”
The 17 year-old Ghassan longed for love – or so he thought. What he really longed for was sex; any kind of sex would do, he just needed an outlet for all this pent up energy, waiting to burst forth and, luckily for him, his cousin Faisal sensed this need. Ever since he was a small boy, Faisal had led the way for his younger cousin and he had watched him these past weeks longingly gazing across the street to catch a glimpse of the college girls before they were whisked away from view. Ghassan’s family had big plans for their son, so no early marriage had been talked of; he was to travel to America and attend College there, just as soon as his final year was ended. Meanwhile the urges of a 17 year old boy are strong and, left unfulfilled, begin to take over all his waking hours, and most of his sleeping hours too.
“We have an appointment, Ghassan. Meet me at my market stall around 2pm – and look smart!”
Ghassan was intrigued of course but knew better than to ask questions. Faisal loved a secret and nothing would have persuaded him to impart even a tiny detail of the ‘appointment’.
“What is this place, Faisal? Everyone seems to know you.”
“All in good time my boy, all in good time.”
They sat at low tables and Ghassan was mesmerized by the rustling of the women’s skirts skimming the marble floors as they served mint tea in the customary cups. He could feel his usual problem threatening to rear up without much warning, so quickly began a mundane conversation with his cousin about the coming week-end’s hunting trip – anything to steer his thoughts away from the bosoms and thighs now so obvious beneath the girls’ flimsy attire. Four of them begin to sway to the music and the conversation drifts away to nothing as all eyes are fixed on the gentle movements of the dancers. One of them unties a scarf from her waist and playfully entwines it around Ghassan’s neck inviting him to join her and he willingly follows as she leads him through to another room.
A soft, yet firm whisper, “Don’t speak”, enters his blindfolded world. He knows she’s there before the voice confirms it; that unmistakable musky scent combines with an undertone of apricot oil to invade his confused thoughts. The softest touch of a silken finger brushes the downy centre of his abdomen in slow, circular motions moving teasingly downwards. Not sleeping but just below the surface, inhaling deeply, he is intoxicated by the heady perfume, as a hand slips down to the oily pool that now lies in the well below his belly.
He hears a murmured inducement: “Lest you wake from your reverie, my sweet boy.”
He smells a smoky, woody opiate and willingly sinks into a dreamlike state. Too soft this touch upon his thighs, a tongue tip searches inwards, whilst fingers dip into the oil and find their slippery way to his waiting manhood. Tongue and fingers become one in his dancing mind and still the dance goes on.
Her breath is warm as the Mistral in June as he feels the weight of gossamer-clad breasts fall upon his unsuspecting face. A gasp, “hush!” A throaty whisper from her now as she places a bud-like nipple to his open mouth and he tastes the apricots as she sits astride him:
“Not yet, dear one, not yet …” Her lips so close he feels the breath as she withdraws and slides down to take him in her mouth. A probing tongue lingers and swirls ’til his single thought is of the utter softness of her and he can hold back no longer. Her wet lips graze his cheek in a parting gesture and she gently removes the silken scarf from his eyes:
“Remember me, as I shall remember you, Ghassan.” He hears the door click shut. His eyes have yet to adjust but the husky voice and her scent will stay with him always.
11.38 pm
Miles has fallen asleep. I am wide awake. So much for that then!
He looks gorgeous lying there, the strong line of his jaw, dark stubble, tousled hair, a bit too long. Is that grey hair at the temples? The moon is bright tonight, waning yet giving a strong light across the room.