Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [16]
“Oh yes,” said Cavidan Hanım, “but find another jazz program, will you?” She lowered her head and began stroking him again, picking up where she’d left off.
His hands shaking, the young man turned the radio on and tuned in to a jazz station. The sound of a rebellious, unrepentant saxophone filled the car. Had to be John Coltrane.
At that moment, Cavidan Hanım lowered her head further and took the young man’s penis into her mouth. I know, it sounds almost pornographic when I put it like this, but these things are just a part of life, they come so naturally. And as long as I’m telling you the whole story, why should I succumb to puritanical pressures and skip the details? Okay, so what was Cavidan Hanım thinking all this time? Well, first of all, she was wondering why on earth she had never done this before, and thinking how many more things there were that she had never done before, and how the world was just full of things she had never done before … She was intrigued by the taste; he must be a clean man, she thought, because she couldn’t detect even the faintest scent of urine. Curious, with the tip of her tongue she touched the clear fluid oozing from the tip of the penis; perhaps it was due to the aftertaste of beer in her mouth, but she found it to be rather sour. She cleansed her tongue on the shaft of the young man’s manhood, which was as hard as it could possibly get by now. Its skin, wrinkled at first, was now stretched tight, as if a larva inside was struggling to escape.
Tolga placed his can next to the gearshift. His hands were in the woman’s black hair now.
Cavidan Hanım raised her head and peered up at him. Ignoring the pressure gently pushing down on her head, she sat up. She slipped out of her jogging pants with some difficulty, as she wasn’t used to doing this sort of thing. Bodies always seemed to grow larger inside cars, somehow. She kicked off her shoes, letting them drop next to the black plastic bag. She tugged on her panties until she’d peeled herself free. The rebellious notes of John Coltrane mingling with the whistle of the wind and merging with their wetness, Cavidan Hanım climbed onto the young man’s lap. She carefully gripped his manhood and placed it between her legs.
For Cavidan Hanım, the young man ceased to exist. For her, there were only the seagulls, radiant against the blackness of the night, the strokes of blue and gray against the canvas of pitch black waters, the sea in its bubbling turbulence, the hell of the lodos. She didn’t notice how Tolga reached and unzipped her top and removed it. Only when he reached around for the clasp of her bra did she move to help him. She had only her socks and her medallion on now. Her breasts, made soft by time, sagging, defeated by the pull of gravity, lunged forward with yearning and met the young man’s mouth. She was rising and falling; she was taking the whole city in. This wasn’t an ordinary coupling. She imagined the city’s skyline, and went mad with desire. The manhood between her legs was every skyscraper of the city, symbolic bastions of power with blue-tinted windows, and crowns disappearing into heavy, low-lying clouds. That manhood was every intricate street she loved to stroll through, from Beyolu to Tünel. As she rose and fell, she whispered Istanbul’s name. The young man held onto her hips tightly, trying to help her keep her rhythm. That manhood was the winter evenings falling early on the city,