by Young
“Clever boy! And by quieting our minds, we can open ourselves to experience…” he waited.
“The Divine,” I twittered. “This experience will lead the devotee to renewed conceptions of our place within the universe. Thereby rendering a way of transcending our own suffering.
“We can find comfort in prayer that ‘God’ is with us and in us always when distressing things happen to us or our loved ones.”
“And who is this ‘God’?” Victor questioned.
“‘He’ is not a bearded old man sitting in judgement of his minions in the sky, nor are we pawns in a cosmic chess game made to suffer according to ‘His’ divine plan. Therefore, the divine Godhead is the I Am that I Am.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed my professor.
“We can also use prayer as a way of expressing gratefulness. Once we realize we are not independent, but dependent creatures, we can be thankful for the blessings showered upon us.
“Societal pressure is constantly upon us to want more of this or that – money, power, sex, material items – the list goes on. These are things that do not bring true happiness. It is through gratitude that we accept we are well provided for. We can also use prayer as a method of forgiveness for wrongful things we have said or done in our lives and for transgressions we feel have been committed against us.” He gave me a sly glance.
“Many psychologists counsel that healing cannot happen without forgiveness,” he stated, circling back to his original point.
Embarrassed, I avoided his stare.
He continued to explain, “Prayer can also be an implement to connect with others. We pray for someone in trouble to wish them well - without the expectation that a supernatural intervention will make this so. Instead, the prayer for others is about connecting with what that person is going through. By expressing compassion, we empathize with their experiences. As soon as we realize that ‘God’ - the spark of our being, is also the spark of theirs; this connection with others is strengthened.
“Young, the best testimony to our discussion is to experience the prayer and its spiritual joys. Then you’ll know what it really means.” He was quiet.
With his palms to mine, we closed our eyes and prayed for our friends’ wellbeing and speedy recovery.
PART FIVE
United Kingdom – London
Philippines – Palawan Island
Thailand – Bangkok
India – Madras (Chennai)
Chapter Fifty-Two
Serendipitous Miscalculations
“What people call serendipity sometimes is just having your eyes open.”
Jose Manuel Barroso
January 2013
Continuation of Andy’s Message (part two)
…It was great to skinny dip in such a beautiful environment. It was difficult not to fall prey to these two attractive, brown-skinned boys with their enticing brown eyes, exotic smiles and seductive charms. In turn, they found my masculinity irresistible. That evening we frolicked under the silvery moon.
Amidst the gentle rolling waves, we lay on the shoreline. I was in heaven when they enveloped me in a dizzying spell of unbridled resignation. Both of them took turns lapping at the fiber of my existence, teasing and caressing my engorgement with agile dexterity. I could no longer hold off my essence and sprayed on their faces. We shared my dripping rivulets in a passionate three-way kiss.
When they continued suckling my penis, I was steered back to life. I had to possess their tenderness. I took turns pleasuring their puckering fissures as they begged for my stiffness with irrepressible gusto.
Boy, did they love my proclivity! The louder their groans, the harder I pounded. When I withdrew from one, the other was poised for insertion. They couldn’t get enough of my onslaught. I was in ecstasy as I whisked back and forth between these two insatiable accomplices.
The more acute my plundering, the more uncontrollable their hardness throbbed. Anak, no longer able to withhold his enthusiasm, spewed into Taer’s throat while I plucked away at his friend’s rucking furrow. Taer’s twitching tightness had me deposit my fill into his receiving orifice.
Anak wasted no time in devouring the oozing drippage around my pulsating phallus, still enshrouded within his buddy’s tunnel.
To pleasure himself, the unquenchable Taer wanted my bobbing organ down his throat. I obliged. In a trancelike delirium, the Filipino released jets of potent effusions onto his slender abdomen. Our tongues swirled in erotic kisses as we shared our libations in frantic elation.
Unwilling to relinquish this enchanted evening, we dove into the shimmering ocean, only to emerge rejuvenated, ready to resume the sequel of our sexcapade.
1968
The Sheik’s Summon
Fahrib gave a sigh of relief when we met in the library. He had requested my presence after a hectic work day. My Master was exhausted, yet a sense of serendipitous satisfaction filled the chamber with Papageno’s Aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute.
Like an oversized leprechaun, the doctor was prancing cheerily around the room on his fiddle. I had seldom seen this solemn patriarch behave in such a jovial manner. I stood entranced, befuddled by such ebullience. He motioned for me to sit.
I waited for the final melody to subside before His Excellency spoke. “I can’t keep my happiness to myself. I have to let it out. You’re the only person who will understand my frivolity.”
I nodded and said nothing.
Out of breath, he added, “There are many things to celebrate.”
“What’s the joyous occasion?” I asked.
My Master exclaimed as he plonked himself next to me, “Many folds, my boy, many folds!
“For a start, my wife is with child. That is cause for celebration.”
I cried joyously, “Congratulations, Your Excellency. I’m delighted for you and Shahria.”
He stopped me before I could continue. “It’s Roya that is with child, not Shahria.”
Surprised, I blurted without thinking: “Roya? But…”
“Yes, my beloved Roya. Now I have an heir,” he announced. He added cheekily, “But what, Young?”
“I… thought it was Shahria in the chamber…” I trailed off, wondering how to proceed.
The sheik interjected smirkingly, “There is more than what meets the eye.”
Not to be impertinent, I kept quiet. The sheik glanced at me. “I’ll give you a clue, if you are wondering who…”
I nodded furiously.
“He’s an avid art savant.”
All I could conjure was, “Oh!”
Jabril, the art historian, came to mind, but the doctor changed the subject before I had time to hypothesize further.
“A load has been lifted off my shoulders since Haalib and his brother went to rehab.
“Instead of dealing with their peccadillos, I can concentrate on my investments and the affairs of the state.”
He let out a sigh.
“And last but not least, P is visiting tomorrow,” the Arab delivered with relish. “He’s coming to discuss our projects and investments.”
“It’ll be nice to see Prince P again,” I said delightfully.
“Ahh, that’s why I called for you,” the sheik continued. “We’ll be discussing business strategies during his visit to Sharjah. I would like you, Andy, Jabril and Tad to accompany the womenfolk to London.”
“To London?” I quipped.
“Tad has a residence in London. Victor, Jabril, Andy, the women, and you will be staying at the Dorchester,” my Master announced.
Surprised by his declaration, I queried, “The London Dorchester? Are we going on a shopping spree with the household females?”
The sheik found my proclamation comical. He iterated, “Yes, Young, you’ll be staying at the London Dorchester and going on a shopping spree. I would like the five of you to chaperone my wives and the womenfolk for a holiday in London.
“I need uninterrupted time with P to discuss our business accruements.”
&
nbsp; I nodded, acknowledging the ‘real’ reason the patriarch wanted us out of the way during his lover’s visit to Sharjah.
The News
Andy was already waiting for me outside the library. I couldn’t wait to tell him what had transpired within.
“We’re leaving for London with the Assalamu Alaikum ladies,” I announced.
“I know,” came my Valet’s answer.
“Who told you?” I stared at my Valet in disbelief.
“I know everything, including the addition to the Royal Household.
“Jabril and I spoke when you were with the sheik. An upcoming celebration is in the works.”
“That’s wonderful! Then I don’t have to repeat what was said in the library,” I twittered.
He nodded before we proceeded to our chamber to pack for our upcoming sojourn.
Aboard the ‘Ship’
All our bags were packed and ready to go. Instead of flying BOAC first class with my mummy dearest, I was on board the ‘Ship’ with my lover, teacher, stalker, an art historian and a gaggle of harem women chitter-chattering in a foreign language at the aft.
As I sat at the nose, contemplating my life’s recent events, Tad crept up to join me.
He began chirpily, “I’m happy for Fahrib and his parents. A child is on the way.”
“I’m delighted with the news too,” I seconded. “At least his parents won’t be nagging him to produce another heir anytime soon, now that Roya is with child.”
He gave me a devious smile but said nothing.
I decided to be bold.
“I’m surprised the child isn’t yours but Jabril’s.”
Tad looked at me artfully before bursting out in laughter. “Jabril’s!”
I stared at him. His laughter attracted my Valet, who came to join us.
“What is so hilarious?” he insisted.
The athlete looked at me and questioned, “Who told you the child is Jabril’s?”
“The sheik said he’s an avid art savant…” I chirped.
The Arab burst forth in merriment again before I could continue. Andy and I exchanged bewildering glances.
My chaperone questioned, “Whose child is Jabril’s? I didn’t know he has a child?
“He’s preparing his engagement to Kifah. Is Kifah pregnant?”
“Jabril is marrying Kifah?!” I exclaimed in befuddlement.
“Fahrib told you, didn’t he?” my Valet declared.
“No he didn’t. He told me his wife is pregnant,” I expressed.
“Pregnant!” My guardian vociferated.
“Shush, lower your voices,” hushed my stalker, who was in a teeter.
He beckoned us closer. “Roya is carrying Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani’s child.”
“What?” My guardian promulgated. “Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, the sheik’s cousin from Qatar?”
“Who?” I cried.
Andy shushed me. He leaned over and whispered, “We met him at the Sotheby’s art auction. Remember?”
“Him! I thought he was Fahrib’s rival?” I chirped.
“Only when it comes to purchasing art and luxury items. Our kind like to compete in owning the crème de la crème - keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak. Otherwise, we are pals,” Tad exponentiated. “Young, this is the way our culture operates.”
Suddenly, a lightbulb illuminated my thoughts. I voiced, “Is that the reason Sheik Fahrib forged the Warhol ‘Marys’ and had their eyes cut out as peepholes? To deride Mansoor Jassim bin Abdul Al Thani for outbidding His Excellency on the ‘Marys’?”
The champion nodded with a sardonic smile. “My golly, you got it!” he muttered, imitating Professor Henry Higgins.
“How… how did Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani and Roya…” I trailed off when Andy’s look reminded me that I shouldn’t precipitate further on this hypersensitive topic.
Just then, Jabril and my teacher joined us.
I evinced courteously, “Andy just informed me of your upcoming engagement. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, boy. This is not the last of me,” he responded with a roguish smile and a mischievous wink before the men moved on to other topics of discussion.
I gazed out the window, speculating about the relationship between Roya and Munsor Fayaad, when a hand touched my shoulder. It belonged to none other than my stalker, Tad.
“Have dinner with me alone this evening. I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he whispered wickedly.
“What about Andy?” I muttered.
He gave me a barely perceptible wink.
Chapter Fifty-Three
A Hymn To Him
“Why can’t women be more like men?”
Professor Henry Higgins
(Pygmalion)
January 2013
My Response to Andy’s Message
Andy,
I find your erotic essay charming and amusing. Are you trying to write in the style of Young? LOL!
I’ve never known you to be flagrantly descriptive in any subject matter, let alone erotica. My, oh my! You have certainly come a long way from the Andy I knew. ☺
Jesting aside, you already have me hooked on your Palawan Island escapade. Please do not construe my remark as rude. Your erotic descriptions are genuinely endearing.
Love,
Young.
1968
The Harem Women
Although I had consulted with the Assalamu Alaikum women during our fashion discussions, unlike the Kosk Household, where they were genial with one another, this assemblage was filled with sparring and indignation. On the surface, they appeared congenial, but when backs were turned, backstabbing became de rigueur.
The women’s body language often divulged more than their spoken words did, even though my Arabic fluency was paltry at best.
In London, my propinquity with the ladies made it difficult for me to communicate safely with the opposing factions within this splintered household. The women – Shahria, Roya, Kifah, Iba, Ain, Ayisha, Fatima, Lina and Safiya - had divided themselves into three conflicting camps.
The conservationist champions of the Islamic fundamentalist doctrines were Shahria and Ain. Expelling religious quotes from their sacred book, the Koran was their escutcheon of righteousness. In any circumstance that did not conform to their religious principles, these two would be the first to dissuade the others from pursuing whatever alluring attractions were at hand, even if their counterparts disregarded their orthodox stance.
I was sure a beastly eruption would ensue if these two “Sisters of Perpetual Abstinence” were to meet their antithetical analogue, the “Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.”
Roya, Kifah, Iba and Lina were the counterbalance. Although their traditional garb concealed their unorthodoxy, these four women were the least reticent within the entourage. An onlooker would never suspect mavericks lurking behind the gossamer veils. Much like Nasreen and Shiya from the Kosk Household, these four females were audacious forerunners to contemporary Arabian womenfolk.
The moderates were Ayisha, Fatima and Safiya. They would sway between camps as suited their interests.
For now, Roya, the carrier of the royal heir, was the envy of them all and the one that held the highest approbation, even though her proponents were clueless about the real identity of the royal foetus.
In keeping with the tradition of most affluent soon-to-be brides throughout history, Kifah’s trousseau would be the most exquisite money could buy. Although her family was not as well-heeled as either Shahria’s or Roya’s, she was a lady in waiting to the Sheikhas and a cousin to the royal household. That in and of itself demanded a resplendent wardrobe beyond her parents’ means. After all, her Big Day would be attended by an aristocratic patronage, and her family did not want to lose face to their more plutocratic peers. They had little choice but to cough up a presentable dowry for their soon-to-be son-in-law, the bisexual art historian, Meneer Jabril Zev Saliba.
The Dorchester
My Anglophili
a for all things British never waned during my years of harem services. On the contrary, the longer I was away from England, the more I yearned for its civilizing timelessness. An invisible force tugged at my bosom from the city I would eventually call home.
The quality time spent with my surrogate dad and guardian, Mr. James R. Pinkerton, had become entrenched in my psyche, and London, rather than Kuala Lumpur, the place of my delivery, was now my hearth.
Like the Ritz, the Dorchester, situated on Park Lane and Deanery Street to the east of Hyde Park, is one of the world’s most prestigious and expensive hotels. This Grande Dame opened its doors on the 18th of April 1931. She retained her 1930s furnishings and ambiance, despite her 1950s modernization by theatrical designer Oliver Messel. Besides incorporating aspects of his flamboyant design to the hotel interior, the lavish apartments on the 7th and 8th floors, especially the Oliver Messel Suite, aptly named after the decorator and designed in the Georgian country house style, were wildly sought after by royalties, literary luminaries, A-list actors, models and rock stars. Celebrities such as the late Ms. Elizabeth Taylor and her then-husband Richard Burton frequented the hotel throughout the 1960s and 70s.
As was the norm, the Sharjah/London cultural attaché made all the necessary arrangements to ensure our comfortable stay in the city. As much as the sheik would have liked to ensconce his pregnant wife, Roya, at the Oliver Messel Suite, it was already occupied by Said bin Taimur, the ruling Sultan of Oman at the time.
We were relegated to the other suites within the seventh floor, which were just as luxurious as ‘The’ Oliver Messel Suite. Much to our Arab males’ chagrin, however, Roya and her ladies-in-waiting did not share the men’s sentiments. Carrying a royal heir merited royal treatment, reasoned Roya, Lina and Safiya, who kicked up a storm of furore with both cultural attachés. Tad and Jabril had to step in to make peace. Roya finally accepted an appeasement after a long-distance conversation with her husband (as restitution for this abhorrent atrocity, the sheik agreed to buy her, her desired jewellery from the infamous Asprey). Only then did she and her attendants calm down before retiring to their respective suites with aplomb, with the knowledge that the royal bearer could now manipulate her latent homosexual husband with the child in her womb.