He was rude to me when I first saw him, which is one of the reasons I remembered him. The other was that he was drop-dead gorgeous.
This was in the souk (Arab market) in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, one dull Saturday morning, and I was shopping for a Quran. Not some paperback English translation, but something really nice, an ornate Arabic copy I could display in my office at home. I also needed it for a few of my Arabic classes. I found the sort of shop I was looking for in one of the darker, less populated corridors of the covered market, a little stall really, which sold a variety of Qurans and assorted religious trinkets. It was overseen by two men, one younger, one older.
The older man was sucking sleepily on a water-pipe, and seemed uninterested in me as I looked over the wares. The younger man had a book open in his lap, but he watched me out of the corner of one piercing dark eye. I spotted a copy I liked, and reached to turn back the front cover with my right hand. I wanted to see if it included commentary, or if it was just the text. The sleepy older man glanced at me, realizing I'd seen something I liked--and might be persuaded to buy. But the younger one was having none of it. To my shock--because Arabs are, in my experience, unfailingly polite, especially to foreigners, and very especially to foreign customers, with none of the rudeness or inattentiveness you sometimes find in an Israeli shop--he stood up and snapped "Don't touch!" I literally jumped back, and not just because of the surprising behavior. When he stood up and turned fully toward me, I could see exactly how beautiful he was.
His black hair was cut short and neat, but it was obviously thick. He also had very neat facial hair. About a half-inch of beard--stubble, really. The rest of his skin was liquid-smooth, unlined, a warm golden brown. His eyes were large, arresting, dark, with long curling lashes and soft thick lids. His mouth, though set and serious, was quite lush. He was very young to have such a grim expression on his face, maybe only 25. I realized my mouth was open and I had nothing to say, so I took a step back, then turned around and started back the way I came. I could hear the other man saying something to him in rapid Arabic. I didn't catch what, but he sounded pissed. I continued on my way, got my book at another shop, and ended the excursion with some sweets from one of the many sweet-shops. My mind returned to the pretty young fellow with the grim face as I enjoyed my treat, but I avoided his area of the market for the next few weeks.
I was sitting by the window in a restaurant I frequent near the Old City, and the same young man walked in. The place was somewhat full, and one of the only seats available was near me. So he sat close by. I watched him order his tea, and then pull out a smudged, tract-like document from his bag, which he proceeded to peruse, head bent.
I must have been bored, or feeling particularly gutsy, because I used my badly-pronounced Arabic to get his attention. Then, once I had it, asked him if he'd been to this restaurant before. When he answered yes, many times, I asked him what was the best dish on the menu. He didn't seem to recognize me from the market, and pleasant conversation ensued.
It turned out he was a religious student at some madrasa or another. Hence, I guess, the dead-serious look. His English wasn't great--the vocabulary seemed uneven, comparatively rich on some subjects, barely adequate on others. But he liked to talk, especially about his studies. He was interested in mysticism, things like that. Not really my area. But his beauty, and his cute broken English, sufficed to keep my eyes from glazing over. And somehow, by the time I'd finished eating, I had convinced him that coming back to the room I was renting in East Jerusalem for coffee was a good idea.
Now, from what I gathered, he wasn't married, and he shared a place with a few other students who were away right now, in a building owned by his cousin, the shop-keeper. His family was from Hebron. So nobody was expecting him home tonight.
It relieved me that, unlike with most Arab guys his age, none of his chatter on our bus-ride to my place was about girls. But, because it was mostly about God, I wasn't exactly elated.
In my room, I got him seated comfortably on my sofa, then went into my little kitchenette, out of sight, to put together something to drink. I boiled water, then got out sugar, instant coffee, and brandy. I mixed it together in oversize mugs, putting several generous dollops of liquor into his. I was betting on his never having tasted alcohol before.
And I was right, because he continued sipping on his drink throughout our Arabic-English conversation, seeming not to notice the effects it was having on him. His gestures got more effusive, his English looser, easier, but also more haphazard. The little ember of desire I'd had for him since the day at the market began to grow and grow.
Then he asked where the bathroom was. I showed him, and he got up, a little unsteadily--which was adorable after only a few shots of brandy. He said something about studying all day and being "too much tired". I smiled and nodded knowingly. When he returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, I grabbed him by the shoulders, pressed him against the wall, and kissed his somber, lush-lipped mouth hard.
Needless to say, he struggled. Needless to say, he protested, both in Arabic and in English further broken by fear. But though nearly as tall as me, with firm small muscles, he was a slim young man and I was able to wrestle him to the bed, and after only a brief struggle, pin him there. When he opened his mouth to yell for help I slapped him, hard enough that, but for luck, I might have split his lip. His soft mouth trembled in fear and shock. I leaned over and whispered into one of his lovely ears, telling him to keep quiet or I'd hurt him badly. He seemed to believe me.
He went limp, staring at me with those wide soft eyes. I wouldn't have believed he could look any more appealing then he had the first day I saw him, that first jarring glimpse. But in this strange state, both animated and mollified by terror, he was ten times as beautiful--particularly the eyes, alert, yet wordlessly pleading. He had, I imagine, only the vaguest idea of the things I might intend to do to him.
I slapped him again, just for fun, across the other side of his face. He didn't need to say anything--the eyes said it all. He was horrified, of course, but he also felt betrayed. I must've seemed like such a nice young tourist, up til now.
I made sure his long, lean legs were pinned under mine, and then I began to unbutton his fly. He wore nice, light-colored dress pants, which I slid easily down his thighs. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his head away, so that he wouldn't have to look at me. I grabbed him by his short hair and made him face me, giving his warm, firm, inner thigh a rough pinch, telling him to watch me. He made a small shuddery sound and obeyed. I liked seeing the fear in those gorgeous eyes, as I got his pants down past his knees, and then worked them off over the nice pair of rubber sandals he was wearing. I removed them, too, fondling his beautiful feet while he watched me.
I left his feet and moved back up his body, stroking the firm legs with their light dusting of silky black hair. He was wearing plain white briefs, a little thin. I tugged at part of the leg band, decided it was worth a try, took a bit of fabric in each hand, and tore one side of the briefs in half. Again, his eyes widened. His mouth quivered, and began to move, forming silent words, probably prayers. That annoyed me, so I gave his inner thigh another hard pinch, twisting the olive flesh and making him gasp sharply in pain. I told him to stop, and his mouth fell still as I tore the other side of his underwear, yanked the fabric from beneath his ass, and tossed it aside.
His genitals were limp, shriveled with fear, but I could see he had a nice, smooth, cut cock and silky black pubic hair. I doubted anybody had ever touched this--possibly not even the young man himself, when he could avoid it. He flushed in lovely shame as I reached out and stroked him, pumping his shaft lightly, wanting to see if I could give him an erection. It worked, in some measure. He reacted to the sensation, his cock growing bigger, his frightened, bewildered, and stunningly handsome face flushing a deeper shade of red as blood rushed up beneath the golden pigment. I crawled on top of him and kissed him again. He opened his mouth for me, not wanting to be hurt again.
I kissed him slowly and with thorough relish, tasting the inside of his mouth. It was another way of violating him, and his taste was delicious. He just kept his mouth limp and open and submitted to the caresses of my tongue.
Finally I pulled back, spit trailing from my mouth to his in several places. His eyes were so big and deep and so exquisitely cowed, so full of paralyzing fear. I stroked my finger over one lush soft lid. He moaned. Now, what had I told him about no noise? I took one of his velvety earlobes between thumb and fingers and twisted. When I let go, his golden ear was blushing red, as his inner thigh had been.
