I’d often been told I resembled my mother. Unfortunately, I was three weeks into a torrid affair with Jawid when I realized he was married. Not that I’d looked that hard. I’d met his “ex”, Nasrin, at one of the routine hospital social functions a while back. She was a few years younger than Jawid, I guessed in her late twenties, and quite beautiful, with the deep, expressive eyes and lithe figure so typical of young Middle Eastern women. She was impeccably dressed in an emerald-green designer suit and exquisitely delicate jewellery that subtly enhanced her warm and ready smile. I’d been delighted to discover the wicked intellect and generous sense of humour she kept so well hidden under her quiet demeanor. I’d liked her.
But when Jawid said he was available – and I did ask him – I assuaged my quick flickerings of guilt with the knowledge that I wasn’t a home-wrecker. It had been months since the last time he and I had worked together. Whatever had happened between Nasrin and him had been just that – between them. People’s lives changed, especially those of talented doctors as handsome and personable as Jawid. I let myself conveniently forget all about Nasrin. And forgetting was easy.
From the moment Jawid first touched me, I was consumed with passion for him. At work, I constantly battled my almost primal need to be with him. I wanted to maintain my position as a senior administrator. I was only thirty-two, and had fought long and hard to earn the respect and cooperation of my colleagues. So Jawid and I had to be discreet. But his kisses electrified me, and we were both working brutally long hours. When our need became desperate, we indulged in quick, dangerous trysts in my office, the only room available with a locking door. On quick breaks, he lifted my skirts and took me roughly and quickly on the top of my desk, dropping his pants just enough to fuck me, hissing and thrusting harder and deeper when I grabbed his hips and viciously scored his skin.
When we could steal whole lunch hours, I stripped him and pressed him into my desk chair, straddling him naked, riding him slowly and thoroughly. My breasts felt alive against his skin. When he closed his arms around me, my nipples strained towards the soft tickles of the lustrous dark hair on his chest and arms. I opened to him, like a flower, demanding his tender probing, offering the petal-soft lips of my vulva to him. He took my cries into his mouth as we shattered into the sunlight stealing through the closed slits of the window blinds. I was greedy. And so quickly in love.
And so blissfully, naively, unaware of the cultural chasm between my “Americanized” lover and me. Jawid’s English was flawless, almost without accent. He’d been in the States since he was fourteen. He seemed thoroughly assimilated, at least for Los Angeles, where celebrating Eid al Fatir is no more unusual than celebrating Christmas. Although I’d never met the large and much loved family he talked about so often, I assumed that was because our whirlwind affair had blossomed so quickly, and because of our hectic schedules. Besides, he and I had so much in common: a love of Renaissance paintings and techno dance music, a dedication to the childhood vaccination programme for undocumented immigrant children that I’d worked so hard to implement. In my hard-headed Irish-American brain, love conquered all, especially on the day Jawid said he wanted me as his second wife.
Which to me meant he was divorced from his first wife.
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
The light finally dawned when we were rolling on the sheets in my bedroom, celebrating.
“Beloved,” he whispered, his dark eyes glazed with passion and his golden skin glistening with the sweat of our loving. He held himself above me, balancing on strong, beautifully rippling arms, gliding into me, hot and slick and demanding. “Oh, my Amanda. Nasrin will love the way you cry out when I am thrusting deep into your woman’s heat.”
His words flowed over me like the soundless warmth of his breath, teasing my skin. We were devouring each other on the blue satin sheets of my queen-sized waterbed, letting lust and desire rule us on a long, stolen afternoon, celebrating our engagement while we played hookey from a board meeting that had everything to do with politics and nothing to do with our programmes. I cried out, mindless with passion, wrapping my legs around his waist and trying to draw his firm, lean body further into me.
“Nasrin will love the way you squirm when I suckle your breast, the way your musk fills the air when you climax with me buried in your sweet cunt.” He twisted like an acrobat and sucked my nipple slowly up into his mouth.
A warning bell rang in my mind, but my thoughts were scattering into impending orgasm. I screamed, as pleasure waves washed over me, my body vibrating like a violin shimmering to the draw of the sweetest bow.
“You will marry me, Amanda,” Jawid gasped, his shoulders shaking as he ground into me. “You will become my second wife. I will love you like this for ever.”
He thrust once, twice, quickly, and, as Jawid shuddered into me, I suddenly heard what he was saying. I mean, for the first time, I listened to the words themselves, not to what I’d thought they meant. My belly went cold and I opened my eyes to see the final grimace on his beautiful face as he emptied himself into me. Actually, as he emptied himself into the rubber I’d insisted he use. I felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me.
“You’re still married.” My voice sounded oddly flat, even to my own ears, like someone else was speaking out of my mouth.
Jawid panted above me, his arms shaking slightly, his head hanging as sweat dripped from his thick hair on to my collarbone. As his breathing slowed, he opened his velvety brown eyes and smiled down at me.
“What did you say, beloved?” He leaned down and kissed me, sucking softly on my lower lip. When I didn’t respond, he lifted his head and looked at me. “Amanda?”
“I said, you’re still married – aren’t you, you shit?” I shoved hard at his chest, pushing him off as I struggled free of his hold.
“Am I still married to Nasrin?” Jawid rolled to his side and looked at me with a confused smile on his face. I tried not to think about how sexy he was, lying there with his skin all flushed from our loving, his still tumescent shaft resting on his balls, still glistening with his semen as he pulled the rubber free and tossed it into the trash. He quirked his head at me. “ Of course we are still married. Why do you ask? She told me you two got along. It’s important that wives like each other.”
The confirmation, as unwanted as it was suddenly expected, stunned me more than I’d thought possible. A red wave of heat washed over my eyes. “You son of a bitch!” I yelled, launching myself at him, pummelling him with my fists.
“Amanda? What are you doing?”
His smile enraged me even further. It faded when my nails drew blood down his chest. I hadn’t realized how strong he was until I found my shoulders flattened to the bed, my wrists held in an iron grip against the mattress as he fought to avoid my flailing legs.
“Stop it!” he grunted, as my knee connected with his belly. When I again missed my target, Jawid straddled me, his eyes flashing. “What is the matter with you?”
“You’re married,” I hissed, fighting him for all I was worth. “You bastard! You asked me to marry you, you made me fall in love with you, and you’re already married to somebody else! Why did you do that?” He was too strong for me to fight. I was pinned to the bed like a butterfly on a mounting board. I turned my head towards the wall in frustration and shut my eyes tightly, trying to close him out, trying to shut out the pain, as hot tears leaked out from under my eyelashes. “Why?”
“Amanda, of course I am still married,” he whispered. “Beloved, I would never abandon a wife to a real divorce.” Still holding me tightly in place, he gingerly clipped my wrists together in one of his hands, then pulled my face towards him. “If Nasrin had objected, I would not have become involved with you. I love her, as I love you. I will honour my wives, always!”
Wives. I sniffled and finally looked up at him. Even through the haze of tears, I saw his concern. Which made me cry all the more. And made me think that maybe I should be laughing instead, at the sheer, rid
iculous insanity of the situation. I felt like I was talking to someone from another planet.
“Jawid,” I choked, my voice still shaking. “You’ve lived in this country for almost twenty years. You know polygamy is illegal here. One man, one wife – or at least one wife at a time. My God, what the fuck part of that minor detail don’t you understand?” My anger was mixed with overwhelming pain. “Or are you deliberately being an ignorant asshole?”
Jawid’s eyes flashed at my language. I was swearing on purpose, partly because the occasion damn well called for it, and partly because I knew how much he disliked it. He pressed my hands into the bed, irritated.
“I have not changed my paperwork because you had not yet said yes – at least, not until today. Now Nasrin and I will get a civil divorce, though not a religious one, of course. After the papers are ‘final’, you and I can get married.” He leaned down and gently kissed my forehead. I turned my head away. “Then Nasrin can move back in with us, and our family will be complete. She will stay with my sisters in the meantime. She wants us to have our honeymoon first, which is as it should be.” He rained a light trail of kisses over the bridge of my nose. “We will need some time alone, you and I. To settle in to each other.” He sucked softly on my lower lip. “ To wear the edge off this frenzy we have for each other, so the three of us may live in harmony.”
I bit him. Hard enough to draw blood. His eyes flashing, he pushed me into the bed and slapped the side of my butt – hard.
“Amanda, why are you doing this?”
I don’t know what hurt more, the anger or the surprise. His and mine. His stupidity at thinking such a thing could ever work. My own stupidity for still wanting him. I turned my face to the wall, willing my body not to shake any more, taking quick, shallow breaths, so the pain of drawing in air didn’t hurt so much. I tried to ignore the heat seeping into me through his strong hands and the thick smell of our sex, knowing I’d never have them again. When I could finally speak, I let all my anger and the cold despair wrapping my heart come out in my voice.
“Get out,” I whispered. “Go home to your wife, Jawid, and stay away from me.” I took a deep, shaking breath, trying not to feel the waves of pain crashing over me with each word. “I don’t want to see you again. Ever.” I said it quietly. I didn’t move, just stared for the longest time at the afternoon shadows falling across the stark white bedroom wall.
“I do not understand,” he whispered. “Amanda . . .”
As his voice broke, a warm, wet drop fell on my cheek, and my hot tears started again. This time, I didn’t try to stop them. “Get out,” I hissed. “Now!” When he finally released me, I curled into a ball, and stayed frozen in that position until I heard the front door close. Then I hugged my pillow and cried until I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep, for a long, long time.
I called in sick the rest of the week, then spent most of the weekend in bed. Eventually, I called my sister. I didn’t go into much detail. She’s never left the coal-mining town we grew up in, so I doubted she’d understand a cultural morass I couldn’t even begin to explain. I just told her I’d stupidly become involved with a married man. She listened, the way sisters do, and told me I was better off without him. “Remember what Mom always says, ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater.’ Just pay more attention with the next man, OK, hon?”
I told her yes, though the truth was I didn’t want to meet another man. I was still in love with Jawid. I was still working with him, though our co-workers kindly didn’t mention my now icy demeanour towards him. We hadn’t told anyone we were seeing each other. But we worked with bright people, whose ability to save lives often depended on their being able to read between the lines. Ours was not the first failed romance at work. It wouldn’t be the last. Our colleagues gave us both a wide berth, and tried not to schedule us in the same meetings.
The telephone call from Nasrin came a month later. I was packing for a long weekend out of town. I was still miserable, but I’d decided I’d wallowed in self-pity long enough. It was time to join some girlfriends for an impromptu camping weekend – to force myself to do something, anything, to get my mind off Jawid. Although I was trying not to take any more time off from work, I’d arranged to leave my office mid-morning on Friday. Nasrin’s insistence that she had something to discuss with me that could not possibly wait – or be said over the phone – had me wondering if it would all just go away if I hid my head in a basket long enough. But I felt so guilty I finally agreed to join her for lunch on my way out of town.
Her house in San Marino was far away from downtown. I’d assumed Jawid had lied about going to my place because it was closer to work – the same way he’d lied about everything else. As I started up the winding, tree-lined streets of the gated community they lived in, I wasn’t sure how I felt about realizing that, at least with the geography, he’d told the truth. When I gave my name, and Nasrin’s, the guard waved me through. Five minutes later, I was ringing her doorbell, admiring, against my better judgment, the profusion of exquisite flowers that lined the walkway.
I’d half expected Nasrin to punch me when she answered the door. I was stunned when she hugged me instead, taking my hands in hers and laughing as though we were continuing the conversation we’d started on that evening so long ago. I was still stumbling through my greeting when she linked her arm into mine and started showing me through the lower floor of the house.
“I’m so glad you could make it.” She smiled and led me into a music room bright with the noontime sun. Her hair was pulled up in a heavy gold clip that enhanced the open-faced beauty I’d only partially remembered. The flattering drape of her brown and yellow pantsuit made me glad I’d changed my jeans and sweatshirt for dark slacks and a light silk blouse.
Nasrin didn’t seem to notice my nervousness. “It’s such a beautiful day,” she said, leading me along. “I thought we’d eat in the garden. It’s this way.”
Although I tried hard not to, I could see Jawid, as well as her, in every room we passed through. The pristine white furniture in the immaculate living room emphasized formality, even as it invited me to sit down and rest my feet on an overstuffed hassock. The sofas and chairs were arranged in a large U-shape, to make for easy conversation and to accent an exquisite, thick Persian rug covering the hardwood floor. I recognized the stylized attack helicopters woven in with the ancient vine patterns in the upper corners of the rug, reminders, even in the opulence, of Jawid and Nasrin’s shared refugee past. Yet when I closed my eyes, it was Jawid’s presence I sensed. I could almost smell the spicy, musky tang of his skin. Even the baskets of ripe fruit resting on the polished tables in the kitchen and dining room reminded me of him. I imagined him biting into one of the oranges he so loved, the juice running sweet and sticky down his throat as he licked his fingers clean. The more I thought about him, the more the walls seemed to echo with the laughter I missed so much. I avoided Nasrin’s eyes, letting her running historical commentary blur into the background as I steeled myself against the onslaught of memories that soon hurt too much for me to see or care if she noticed.
If Nasrin picked up on my feelings, she didn’t say so. She led me through the house and out into the garden. Fortunately, that was all hers. The wind chimes tinkled in the afternoon breeze, soothing my ears as I inhaled the perfume of her thriving, vibrant roses. She’d set a small table in the shade of a vine-laden archway. I protested that I really shouldn’t join her. I wasn’t hungry, though I’d been living on coffee and frozen dinners for weeks. But when she uncovered dishes of fresh green salad and roast lamb with pitta bread, my stomach growled loudly. Despite my embarrassed flush, Nasrin laughed and steered me into a chair. The food was delicious, with a honeyed pastry for dessert, and glasses of hot, sugar-laced tea. I began to relax.
“I love how Americans name their roses after famous people.” She spoke between bites as I tried to place the elusive spices in the vinaigrette. While Jawid had no accent, Nasrin’s voice was thick with the music of h
er homeland. I vaguely recalled that she’d come to the States as a young adult. “That white one is called a Kennedy, after the President. The smell is so light and fresh. The pink is a Princess Diana. Such lovely blushes on the petals, as befits a beautiful princess, yes?”
“Yes,” I said.
Nasrin’s face glowed when she spoke about her flowers. “The deep red one with the white markings is a Dolly Parton. Very full-bodied.” I almost choked when Nasrin winked wickedly. “And this . . .” She leaned to the side of the table, cupped an exquisite, lavender bloom in her slender fingers, and inhaled deeply. “Mmmm. This is my new Barbara Streisand. She is beautiful enough to inspire song, I think.” Her laugh was contagious. “Please.” She smiled up at me and motioned for me to sniff. I bent forwards, inhaling the comforting scent, suddenly aware of the faint sandalwood perfume of Nasrin as well. “Ooh,” she laughed, turning her hand as a ladybug climbed on to her fingers. She lifted it carefully back on to the leaves. “I try to keep them happy. They’re so good for the garden.” She waved around her. “Do you tend flowers, also?”
“No,” I laughed, looking at the subtly organized riot of vibrant colours that surrounded me. “I just tend to other people’s problems.” At her raised eyebrow, I shrugged. “I work long hours. That’s how I met Jawid . . .” I closed my eyes, a wave of shame and guilt and pain washing over me. I quietly set my fork down.
“I apologize,” I said stiffly. “You’ve been very gracious, Nasrin, but I have no idea why you asked me here. I have no business sitting here talking to you as if we were friends, even though I like you. God knows why, because I’m still in love with your husband.” I took a deep breath, my voice trembling. “My behaviour has been inexcusable. I didn’t know he was still married, but if you want my apologies, I offer them. Truly. I’m so sorry.”
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 13