Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [101]
My other roommate, Aton, an agnostic white guy with a fetish for Asian girls, chased multiple women at once and kept notes on their performance.
I regularly watched a couple having sex on the balcony across from mine. They waved at me from time to time.
One of the Baptist friends I made had long discussions with me about her preference for anal over vaginal sex: “It allows me to remain a virgin till I’m married.”
I soon became envious of all this sexual license, and since I was new at school I took advantage of my anonymity and started going to clubs in the Buckhead district. I was underage and didn’t have a fake ID, so I pretended to be an Indian foreign exchange student—“Eyum enjeenyuring pee ech dee”—to get past the bouncers.
My accomplice was an anime-obsessed Japanese girl named Princess whom I’d met in one of my classes. For my first outing she took me to the Havana Club, where—as soon as I was squeezed into a throng of well-lotioned legs, in the dark, with no witnesses—she became the representation of all the girls I’d ever desired. She was the girl in the dorm across from mine who liked exhibitionist sex; she was Nadia Sumienyova from the erotica I wrote as an adolescent; she was the girl in the porn that Moosa Farid and I had reluctantly turned off during our abortive DVD-burning career.
Reaching around her little waist, I pulled her tight for a moment. Then, as she leaned back against my forearm, my other hand explored in her hair, lightly tugging, then pulling her head back to expose her lovely neck. Our hips settled against one another. Her legs spread for a second and then pressed themselves on either side of my thigh. I put my hand on her lower back and ground against her. She hiked her skimpy dress up a little higher and rubbed herself on my rough denim. I put my mouth on her neck and licked her tentatively. She was salty but vulnerable. Opening my mouth a bit, I put my teeth into her. She relaxed against me and let me feed.
Suddenly the barriers of shame and modesty collapsed. I was Yajuj-Majuj bursting upon the world seeking apocalypse—although ejaculation would suffice.
Muslim girls were my immediate “target,” because there were certain in-built advantages I could exploit. First, my aura as a “pious brother” was still intact. That reputation allowed me to go to Islamic conferences and conventions and initiate conversations with girls without having them think that I was hitting on them. “I’m starting an Islamic newsletter and we should keep in touch” was all I usually had to say to get a number.
The second advantage was my looks. I was tall and thin and innocent-looking, lacking in any strikingly masculine physical features. This made me seem less aggressive and perhaps less carnal than other guys my age. When it came to committing sinful fornication, the sisters who wanted to believe they were good girls preferred weak-looking men, because they assumed that aggressive-looking men might demand intercourse, whereas guys like me would take whatever we could get. Since it was very important for sinning sisters not to end up losing their virginity in the dating game—that was a gift they wanted to reserve for their righteous and pious future husbands—my slightly effeminate appearance reassured them.
I began my exploration with a girl named Jullanar, who came from a very conservative family: curfew at sundown and no privacy at home and no cell phone and ceaseless attempts by her parents to marry her off to cousins in countries ending with “stan.” Given that her body really belonged to her father, and he didn’t want any part of him to create erections among other men—since that would mean that he was indirectly a homosexual—she had to buy jeans from the boys’ department at Sears in order to hide her curves. One time her father forbade her to leave the house because she was wearing her purse diagonally, rather like a sling, accentuating her breasts as the strap passed between them. Another time she got a long lecture from her