by R. Joseph
How I wonder
where you are.
And wish I may
Wish I might...
Hold you in my arms tonight.
How I love you.
Yes I love you you're so fine
And I'll always
love you baby
I love you 'till the end of time.
Exiting Borders Books, a thick new hardcover book under my arm, I was preparing to descend a long staircase, and gazing down at the throngs of women who were busily searching for bargains and crisscrossing the highly polished floors, when, there she was: this incredibly beautiful woman.
She was exotic. Stunningly beautiful. Incredibly sexy. Her casading waves of thick silken hair had the color of burning gold--with a crimson hint of red--as if her golden hair was aflame.
She glanced up as I looked down. Our eyes met. She gazed at me with smoldering eyes.
Eyes of fire. Lips of desire.
I was striken! She took my breath away.
Exotic! Erotic. Slim, long-legged, curvaceous, with upturned breasts, and an impossibly tiny hour-glass waist. She looked to be Southern European. Mediterranean. Maybe from the Middle East.
Down the stairs I hurried before this exotic dream girl could drift away.
"Excuse me," I called.
She hesitated, slowed. Her burning eyes boldly searched my face.
"Hello," I said, and introduced myself, giving her my most dashing, charming smile. "I'm doctor Joseph, and I normally don't approach women like this, but you are so incredibly beautiful, I couldn't help myself."
She gazed at me with questioning, flashing eyes. Her crimson red-lined lips parted delicately, revealing two rows of dazzling, sparkling white teeth.
Those lips! That mouth! Her face! Those eyes! That body!
I was mesmerized. Hypnotized. On fire!
She had swept me off my feet.
"Yes?" she asked skeptically, in a heavily accented, honey-flavored voice.
"Are you from the Middle East?" I asked.
"I am Persian" she replied. "And now I must go. I thank you for the kind words" she said and took a step, intending to go.
"Wait," I replied. "I love the Middle East. Persia fascinates me. I'd love to buy you a cup of coffee."
"Thank you, no," she answered. "I am very busy. I have much I must do."
"Maybe we can have lunch, sometime" I said, offering her my card.
Her brow wrinkled as she glanced at the card, as if it were dog shit I was trying to press into her hand.
"I really am a doctor," I said, emphasizing the card which she still declined to accept. "And I would really love to buy you some coffee, or take you to lunch or dinner sometime. I find you to be amazingly beautiful."
"I'm sorry" she said again in her exotic, erotic, Persian-accented voice. And then she quickly explained she was a refugee from Iran, she had been in the U.S. only a few years, and was recently divorced and had no interest in dating.
"I understand," I replied. "Maybe some other time. Here, take my card," I said, pressing it into her beautiful hands and slim graceful fingers.
She tried to hand it back. "I'm sorry. No."
"Please, keep it," I said, "just in case you change your mind."
Her eyes flashing fire, she accepted the card reluctantly, and then she strolled away.
Hynotized. Mesmerized. My eyes followed her exotic, hour-glass figure until she disappeared in the throngs of shopping women.
I dreamt of her that night and the next. For two nights we made love within a dream. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
But then, she didn't call. The months slipped by, and then a year. The exotic, erotic Persian princess became a forgotten dream.
It had been another stressful day, I was working late, trying to concentrate when the phone, again, began to ring.
One ring, then a hang up.
One ring, then a hang up.
This had been going on for five minutes. Whomever was calling was apparently not satisfied with the answering machine and had refused to leave a message. Instead, they hung up and called again.
And again. And again.
Again the phone rang.
OK. Now I was angry.
"Yes!" I demanded into the phone.
I was answered by an exotic, sultry, Persian-accented female voice. "May I speak to Dr. Joseph?"
"Who is this?" I asked, still angry.
"Is this Dr. Joseph?" she asked, ignoring my question.
Now I was angry and suspicious. The Middle Eastern voice! Was I being called by some Middle Eastern terrorist organization, angry about something I had written on religion and the brain?
"No, this is Gabriel" I lied. "I work for Dr. Joseph. Can I take a message?"
"I am Niloofar..." she purred in her incredibly sexy and sultry voice, and then explained how she had met Dr. Joseph at Valley Fair, in front of Macy's.
For the life of me, I had only the vaguest recollection of having met this woman. In fact, I couldn't remember anything about her, though I assumed, since I had given her my card, that she must be very beautiful.
I asked her a few questions, trying to jog my memory, and then she had questions of her own about yours truly.
As it seemed rather awkward to admit I was really Dr. Joseph, I decided to make the best of this opportunity and began to sing my praises.
So, I, or rather, "Gabriel" went on to exaggerate and to explain what a wonderful guy that Dr. Joseph is: handsome, rich, with dozens of girls vying for his attention, but extremely selective in his choice of women. "So, if he gave you his card, you must be incredibly beautiful. I'm sure he'd like to speak to you."
An hour later, as promised, she called again. This time, Dr. Joseph answered on the first ring.
Speaking slowly and in the lower registers to disguise my voice, we talked about this and that, and agreed to meet "in the Children's section of the Barnes and Noble bookstore," the following Saturday morning, precisely at 10. The book store was her idea.
I arrived right on time, curious to see if a truly beautiful woman belonged to that exotic, erotic, sultry voice.
I entered the Children's Section expectantly. Down the book-lined isles, my hopeful eyes, darting here and there, I searched face after female face.
Back toward the entrance, down another isle, and then: a dark-haired woman, on her knees, flipping through the multi-colored pages of a children's book. She looked up. Our eyes met. She was Middle Eastern and repulsively ugly. Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!
I stepped back, aghast.
"How in the world could I have ever given my card to a creature as ugly as that!" I exclaimed silently in my head.
She was so horribly ugly that I thought only of escape. I decided I wouldn't even talk to her. I would just go.
I took a step backward, and another and another, step by step, and then turned, intending to run away.
And there she was: Niloofar!
I gasped with surprise. What an incredibly beautiful woman!
Lips of fire. Face of desire!
Exotic. Erotic. Golden hair crowned in flame. Curvaceous, long-legged yet petite and beautiful beyond belief. She gazed at me with smoldering eyes, her bright crimson lips slightly parted, as if begging to be kissed.
My Persian princess.
What an incredibly sexy, exotic, and beautiful woman!
Mesmerized, hypnotized, my racing heart pounding in my chest; I stood frozen, stock still, unable to speak.
I remembered her now. Walking out of Macys. This was the woman of my dreams!
We strolled for hours, wondering through the narrow rows of book-lined stacks, talking about this and that.
I couldn't take my eyes off her.
She was like some rare exotic bird, a priceless beautiful work of art, an unexpected gift whose glowing presence lit up the room.
I was stricken. Mesmerized. Hypnotized.
Secretly, serepticiusly, I devoured, with my hungry eyes, her sweet succulent lips, narrow waist, perfect ass, upturned breasts, and stunningly beautiful exotic face.
Those kissible lips! Those smoldering eyes. That fiery hair!
I was in love.
And I was not the only one to savour her beauty. Customers of both genders and of all ages, continually gave her the twice-over and turned to stare. Everyone seemed mesmerized and charmed--though I did notice a few jealous young women flashing her the dirtiest of looks.
She was dressed in a black halter top which emphasized her impossibly tiny waist and perfect upturned breasts, and low slung tight fitting faded-pink denim jeans, with red high-heeled shoes to match, which gave the illusion that her wonderfully long legs went on for miles. And to top it all off: her blondish-burning hair, ruby red lips, and firey flashing eyes fanned by long dark lashes that threatened to set the room aflame.
The woman was hot. She was fire. And I was burning up! But I played it cool.
Niloofar, I discovered, despite her obvious exotic sexuality, eye-shadow, gloss lipstick and makeup, was also a brainy class act and possessed what my mother would later describe as: "Old world culture, manners, reserve, and charm."
The girl also had a brain to go with her body! Beauty and brains, a most delicious combination.
For two hours we strolled through the rows of books, talking, sipping coffee, discussing politics, philosophy, art, and psychology. She also explained how she was forced to leave Iran, as a refugee, how the Mulla's decreed when she allowed her flaming gold hair to shine and show, and because, as the religious police discovered, she was not Muslim, she was punished, kicked out of the university, and could not finish her medical degree.
"It could have been worse" she sighed. "They threatened to throw acid in my face."
"Because of your hair?"
She shrugged. "I had taken off my head scarf, because it was hot. The religious police were called. They said showing my hair, and my face, was a sin because it gave men lustful thoughts."
I could see their point. Her hair and face were so exotic and erotically sublime, that even the religious nut cases of her home country could not help but be overwhelmed with forbidden desire.
"Are you going to pursue your M.D. here in America?" I asked.
She wrinkled her brow. "No. It is impossible."
"What then?" I asked.
"A life long dream," she answered.
"What's that?" I asked. "Movie star? Fashion model?"
"No," she replied in her sultry, Persian-accented voice. "I design interior dreams."
"How delightfully mysterious" I replied. "Please explain."
She gazed at me, her firey eyes twinkling pleasure.
"Designs for living," she replied, and smiled. "Interior designs." She continued and then glanced at her watch. "I create grand illussions for the big department stores, Macy's, Emporium, Nieman Marcus, Sac's 5th Avenue. I would love to tell you more. But it is after 12, and I must leave."
"Already?" I asked, disapointed.
"It is time. I must go."
"Can I see you again?" I asked.
She gazed at me with smoldering eyes, her crimson lips slightly parted and that just begged to be kissed.
"Of course," she replied.
"Let me walk you to your car" I answered, taking her hand.
She slipped her fingers through mine, gave me a dazzling smile, and outside we went, hand-in-hand.
And then as we stood beside her driver's side door, she leaned close, but I fought the urge to kiss her amazingly sensuous luscious red lips. Instead, I gave her a hug and asked hopefully: "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"
"Delighted," she purred. "I'd be pleased."
But not as pleased as me!
My head was in the clouds. I wanted to sing: Niloofar!
This was the girl of my dreams!
I met her, at Original Joes, precisely at 6.
The Persian princess arrived dressed in a short, black Giovanni NavarreĀ leather skirt with matching 4-inch Versace Stillitos, an elegant red silk Moschino blouse, and a blush Mahogany mink fur jacket exquisitely tailored to show off her fine figure.
Men and women, even the "gay" waiters turned to stare: She was exotic, erotic with golden hair crowned in flame. Sim, long-legged, curvaceous, upturned breasts, and an impossibly tiny hour-glass waist. Sexy yet reserved, brains and class, the woman was beautiful beyond belief.
We dined and talked while I feasted my eyes on her exotic face, her mouth, her eyes, and lips of ruby red.
I couldn't take my eyes of those lips! She had an amazingly sensuous mouth and lips which seemed to promise: I love to kiss and suck.
To kiss that mouth would be heaven!
I wanted to kiss those lips. To smother her with kisses. To devour her and drink her up... and...
She looked like she could suck like a pro.
The woman was also a mystery. It didn't seem possible that such an exquisite creature wasn't attached. No husband, no boyfriend? How could this be?
So, I asked her to explain.
"My husband was an alcoholic" she said. "And much older than me."
"How did you meet?" I asked.
"He is a professor at Tehran university."
"And now you're divorced?" I asked.
She replied: "He loved drinking more than he loved me."
"Do you have a boyfriend?" I asked.
She laughed and then studied me with her flashing, hypnotic eyes. "Just you," she cooed in her sultry, exotic, Persian-accented voice.
We strolled arm and arm, along the avenue talking, whispering, people-watching, and joking about this and that.
She was exotic. Erotic! Beautiful to behold.
I was mesmerized. My head in the clouds. My heart soaring through the sky. Never, in all my days, had I been with such an enchanting, sexy, beautiful woman.
We walked for hours and then, by chance, we discovered her car was parked close to mine.
Our eyes met. I took her in my arms and she gazed at me with smoldering eyes. Eyes of fire. Lips of desire. Lips that begged to be kissed.
I was striken! She took my breath away.
I kissed her lips and her darting, eager tongue met mine. I kissed her face, her mouth, her neck...
Sighing and moaning, she erupted with passion and lust.
I squeezed her close and kissed her deeply and she began to swoon.
I kissed her neck, her ears, her face, her lips, and she began kissing me back with desperate, wild abandon.
I was surprised by the wild tempest of her passion which seemed just a tad exaggerated.
Was this fake? I silently wondered.
Was this an act? I silently asked.
Who cares? I silently replied.
I kissed her again.
And again she swooned and began kissing me back wildly, greedily, kissing and moaning.
I pulled back in order to catch my breath and to adjust the huge bulge in my pants. "Would you like to come to my house?" I asked.
"Is it not too soon?" She breathlessly replied. "Are we not going too fast?"
"No. Not at all," I lied. "I promise. I will not attack you. I promise. If you come to my home, we will only talk. I will not try to make love to you. You will be safe with me. I promise, and I never break my promises."
"OK," she replied breathlessly.
She trailed behind in her car, and hand-in-hand, we entered my 100-year old, two-story Victorian house.
She was beautiful. Exotic! Erotic! It was hard to believe that such an incredibly gorgeous creature had followed me home. She was like a rare and exotic animal, this sexy Persian princess, and I could not believe my luck.
I lit candles, put on a classical CD, and turned down the lights. Taking her in my arms, she yeilded completely to my embrace. Slowly, savoring every moment, I kissed her amazing lips... her face... her neck...And again she responded with wild abandon, kissing and kissing me with wild lips and daring darting tongue.
Squeezing her close, I gently bit her on the neck. And crying out she again seemed to swoon and erupted with what appeared to be exaggerated passion.
Again, I wondered, is this an act?
And then... and then... She gave me a final kiss and pulled back, surveying me with those daring, blazing eyes.
Running her fingers down my chest she took hold of my belt and then this beautiful, exotic, golden haired Persian princess slowly got down on her knees. To my astonishment and utter delight she gazed up at me with fire in her eyes and slowly unzipped my pants. Then her fingers were inside, wrapped around my throbbing member, which she freed after a moment of struggle. Free at last, she stroked it with her fingers and slipped it deep inside her mouth.
While gazing up at me, she began to lick and suck.
My god! She was deep throating me! And her tongue! It was like a rotor, going round and round. She sucked and licked, and deep throated my... and all the while staring up at me with her burning eyes.
She was lightning. She was fire. Her dark eyes blazed.
It was fantastic. A fantasy. An Arabian-Knights dream!
What incredible cock know how!
And... and... it seemed so... professional!
Is she a prostitute? I wondered. A high priced hooker?
And what happened to that conservative reserve?
And still she sucked, her tongue going round and round... deep throating and sucking....
I began to roar and then exploded with pleasure in her eager bright red mouth. She sucked and licked until the very last drop.
"Take me to your bed," she commanded in her sultry Persian voice. "Make love to me."
My head in the clouds... I obeyed.
To the strains of a Bolero CD, she climbed atop my 4-poster bed and performed a Persian-strip tease. Dancing sensuously to the rhythms, she slowly removed her blouse, her skirt, black bra that could barely hold back her sweet succulent upturned breasts, and, with a final flourish she tore away her black silk panties which revealed a shaved pink pussy.
Her body was incredible. Her perfectly upturned breasts exquisitely edible! And her pussy was so cleanly shaved you could eat dinner on it.
It was a perfect pink pussy.
I licked, I kissed, I spread her legs and devoured her with my fingers, lips, and tongue. Deeper...deeper...I licked and explored making her scream, and cry, and moan.
She was delicious. Fantastic. The sweetness of vanilla and honey.
We sucked. We fucked. We made love for hours... until the rising of the dawn... and then, my Persian princess... she sucked me one last time, and said she had to go. And like that, she was gone.
I was in enchanted. In lust. And deep inside, the first stirring of love.
Would I ever see her again?
It was the beginning of a most beautiful relationship.
Together we would go on a marriage bound journey... a heaven-sent dream... that would end... in a nightmare scream.
Night after sultry night. Week after lustful week, the days swept by as we indulged in sin, making love again and again.
My Persian Princess!
She was magic! A sexual magician. She was pure fantasy, a dream.
My Niloofar. My angel! My sex goddess from the heavens above.
I was obsessed with her caresses. I loved her sensuous body and her soul. Never had I met a woman so enchanting. Never had I loved a woman so.
"I love you," she cooed as she kissed and cuddled and fucked and sucked.
She told me, "I have made love to only two men. You and my husband."
"And no one else?" I asked, not believing a word.
"Only oral sex," she cooed deep throating and licking me round and round.
"With just one man," she explained.
"Lucky bastard," I replied. "Where did you meet him?"
"I called him to see about renting a small home."
"And you performed oral sex on him?" I exclaimed.
"We dated. I thought we had much in common. But we did not and now I am with you."
Again, she deep throated me, and milked me in her hand... deep throating, licking, sucking, until I could take no more and exploded with pleasure between those amazing ruby-red lips.
"You seem... uh... rather experienced," I said. "I mean, the way you suck..."
Indeed, she sucked like a pro. Like a professional. Like a high class, very expensive whore.
"I was married for 7 years..." she explained. "I love sex. And now I love only you."
And then she took me back in her mouth and did it all over again.
Yes I loved her.
I was a love-sick fool.
There followed a whirlwind of heavenly bliss. Nightclubs, plays, concerts, movies, restaurants, late night walks, followed by evening after evening of delicious love-making and Niloofar sucking on my...
And then one steamy night, as she lay in my arms, Niloofar cuddled close, kissing as she said: "I have this Persian friend, from work. She too is divorced. She is so lonely. She asked me to go out this Saturday. I did not want to, but I said fine."
"On a Saturday night?" I asked.
Niloofar, sweetly kissing, and stroking me with her hand, replied: "I hope you don't mind."
"Go out where?" I asked.
"To San Francisco, to party with her friends."
I said nothing, but I thought: If the lonely party girl has friends, she doesn't sound so lonely to me.
And off to San Francisco she went, supposedly with a female friend. They didn't get home until late--or at least, that's what she said, because she didn't call me that Saturday night, but waited until the next morning instead.
And then, during the following days, my exotic, erotic darling showered me with sex and sweet kisses... sucking, fucking, getting down on her knees, fondling and sucking, making me feel like a king.
"I love you," she said, as we lay in bed, the following Friday night. "I love only you."
"I love you too," I said in reply. "I've never been happier."
And it was true. This woman had made me happier than I had ever been in my life. For the first time, ever, I felt complete. "I love, you sweet Niloofar, I truly do!"
But when I awoke the next morning, my Niloofar made me blue.
Snuggling close, she said in my ear: "My friend, Tasha, I've told you of her before. Her husband is away. He is in another country visiting his sick father who may soon pass away. She has invited me, to her house to stay. We will watch a movie together, tonight. Do you mind terribly if we do not see each other this day?"
"On a Saturday night? Can't Tasha wait another day?"
"Oh no!" My Niloofar replied. "She is so lonely. Please say you don't mind."
"OK. OK. But after the movie, come to my home. I love you, Niloofar. Please, after the movie, come be with me and spend the night."
"But I can't do that," she replied. "She will smoke cigarettes. My hair will stink."
"Babe!" I said. "I don't mind."
"I do," she said. "I will come to you Sunday night."
And she did. And we made love Monday too. But then Tuesday night came and went. Niloofar! Where are you?
She called me at 2 AM.
"I just got home," she sighed. "I had been visiting with my cousin."
"On a work night?" I skeptically asked. "And until 2 A.M.?"
"Her husband is away. In another country. His father is sick, and he is afraid his dear father shall soon pass away."
I exploded. "That's the same story you gave me the other day!"
"But I tell you the truth," she cried. "I am not so stupid as to twice make up the same lie."
What could I do? Did I just have a suspicious mind, or was I indeed a love-sick fool?
The next two weeks were heaven and bliss. She showered me with love and all manner of sexual-sins sealed with a kiss.
And then came yet another suspicious surprise. She would be going to San Francisco, to visit her girlfriend's fiance, Izak.
"What?" I exclaimed.
"It is innocent," she explained.
"Innocent?" Wait, I thought. Maybe I didn't understand.
"You mean, you are going to visit your girlfriend and her fiance, right?" But before she could answer I asked: "And which girlfriend is this?"
"Roxanne. I told you about her before. She is my best friend and lives in Terhan."
I felt a suspicious twisting in my gut.
"Let me get this straight. Your girlfriend lives in Iran, but her fiance lives in San Francisco?"
"Yes," she replied, kissing me on the cheek.
"So why are you meeting with him if she's in Iran?"
"Because she asked me, and he called me."
"He called you? Why? Want did he want?"
"To give me something," she sighed.
Right--his dick... and then I remembered: San Francisco. It was a month ago, as we made love into the night, that she announced with a sigh that she was going to the big city to party with a lonely lady's Persian friends.
I grimmaced in anger. I had a bad feeling in my gut.
Was my Niloofar a whore? Was she stepping out?
"If her fiance wants to give you something, why doesn't he just mail it to you?" I asked.
"Roxanne wants me to meet him," Niloofar replied.
"And why is that?"
"Because they are to get married. And she wants to know more about him, since he lives here and she lives in Tehran."
"She's going to marry him, but doesn't know anything about him? Yes--go on."
"She wanted me to spend time with him, to party with him and his friends."
"She is going to marry this guy, but she wants you to get to know him for her? Does she want you to fuck him too?"
"No. No. That is not true."
"Is that the man, and his Persian friends, that you partied with a few weeks ago?"
"Yes--no. I party with him and his friends. I will never see him again."
I exploded in rage: "So you partied with him before? Jesus Christ, Niloofar."
Suddenly, it all made sense. This woman was a whore.
"No. No," she said. "Please forgive my English. I have never met him before. And after Sunday, I will never see him again."
"Damn it, Niloofar. What do you think I am? A fool?"
To my surprise, she burst into tears and cried again and again: "I love only you!"
Niloofar. She was fire. An angel of desire; but although almost every night she was now spending in my bed, doubts began to flood my head.
What did I know of this woman?
She was exotic. Beautiful. She gave a blow job to a man she met when inquiring about renting a small house. On our first date, after just a few kisses she got down on her knees and gave me head and then begged me to fuck her. She had a shaved pussy. She sucked like a pro. This was an experienced, sexually assertive woman with incredible cock-know how! She loved sex. Why should she be true?
Had she been cheating on me? I scanned my memories and tried to understand.
Where was she really, that Saturday night? Watching a movie with a girlfriend, or fucking all night? And what about Tuesday, out to 2.A.M--and both nights the same story about far away husbands visiting a distant land.
And then there were other nights, when she claimed to be with family. Was my Niloofar a sexual liar? A master of the one-night stand?
I didn't like it. I was pissed. But before I could express my rage in words that would be terribly cruel and sick, my Niloofar got down on her splended knees and sucked sucked sucked me as she whisphered between licks: "I love you. I love you. I love only you."
Exotic. Erotic. Beautiful beyond belief. She was fire. A goddess. A demon of desire. And when we made love, it was magic, mystical, and we traveled upwards to dream worlds, higher and higher.
Niloofar! My Niloofar.
But still there was doubt.
Was this sex goddess a lustful liar?
What was real, what was true?
And then the truth revealed: I was truly a fool.
Over the ensuing weeks and months, I met her friends, her family, and Roxanne's fiance too. In turned out, that all she said, was true.
It was difficult to take my eyes off my Persian princess. She was like a rare and exotic animal, a beautiful work of art and so sexy, so beautiful, so passionate, that I began to fear that my luck might just run out.
Exotic. Erotic. A sexual magician in bed. A golden haired goddess. Curvaceous yet slim and petite. She was fire. A demon of desire. Beautiful beyond belief. She was Persian. A princess from the Middle East. And when we made love, it was magic, mystical, we traveled to the stars... this woman, my Niloofar... who with her smoldering eyes caused so much love to grow in my heart.
I couldn't help myself. I got down on my knees, with diamond ring in hand and as I gazed up at her beautiful face, said: "Niloofar, I want to marry you. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. You are the one for me, the one I adore. Truly, my princess, I want to live with you forever and more."
Lips of fire. Face of desire. Tears streamed down her Persian cheeks.
"Mary me," I begged. "I love you. I love you. I truly do."
And still she said nothing, as tears fell like rain.
"Niloofar. Do you want to marry me?"
"Yes" she cried. "I do."
"Niloofar" means "Lilly," which as chance would have it, was also my mother's name. Yet these two women, in my mind at least, were as different as, well yes: Night and Day.
Lillian, my mother, had yet to accept or approve of any woman I had brought home. She dismissed them, obliquely, or referred to them indirectly in terms that could best be interpreted as "whore" or "slut."
As to Niloofar, as with my previous loves, it mattered to me not, what my mother thought.
Niloofar was my sunshine, her lips the morning sun; my Lillie of the fields, a passionate flower that dreams of love. Yes, eyes of fire, face of desire, her smile was the dawn.
When I later introduced her, my mother and sisters fell in love. They loved her. Loved her! It was as if she were some rare exotic bird, a priceless beautiful work of art, that left them enchanted and amazed. They couldn't take their eyes off her, hanging on her every word and phrase. Everyone in my family was mesmerized and charmed.
And when I announced our pending marriage, my mother began to cry and celebrate, as if it were the second coming, and not just a simple wedding date.
Simple, it was not. Change was coming, and for this I was ill prepared.
It was not to be a Western marriage, but held according to her culture, customs, and religious beliefs. As I listened to the plans, I said nothing, keeping all misgivings at bay, even when I discovered, that for everything I would pay.
In truth, I would have been happy to get married in a garage.
Be it Western or Middle Eastern, more often than not, the groom is just a prop. The ceremony is for the bride, her mother, and female friends and family. So, except for the costs, how and where the ceremony would be held, mattered to me not.
My Persian princess picked the date: September 10, just 10 months away, the anniversary of the day we truly met over a year before: 10 AM Saturday.
Niloofar was my dream. For the first time in my life, I was truly gloriously happy. She was sweet, kind and wonderful, and brought joy to my life every day.
My life had been a struggle against all manner of obstacles and seemingly insurrountable and treacherous dark mountains. Where there had been darkness, Niloofar was light.
True, there had been women by the dozen, but as to Niloofar these ladies did not compare. With this Persian Princess, my life had meaning and I felt truly complete. My head in the clouds, I was walking on air. I had found my other-half.
Niloofar: eyes of fire, face of desire, she was sunshine on the mountain and the dawn sun rising on the other side.
Sunshine on the horizon...
Mountains ring the sea...
sunlight peaks over high mountain...
flowers bloom and welcome eternal spring...
She is Lillie of the fields...
a delicate flower that dreams of love...
Her smile is the dawn...
her lips the morning sun...
eyes of fire, face of desire...
Joseph comes bounding on the run...
...across field, wood, and stream...
he takes her in his arms...
...and they kiss within a dream...
Arm and arm, I was to begin a new life journey, with the woman of my dreams. The marriage was still 10 months away, but I was alone no more, and there was sunshine, music, and magic in the air:
Yes. I could still see the mountains,
and now the dawn sun rising, on the other side...
Yes, change was coming, beginning in my own home.
The first was a pleasant surprise. Niloofar wanted a dog. But not just any dog: a Belgian Shepherd.
We had been lying in bed, Niloofar flipping through the pages of my personal photographs: "What a beautiful dog," she exclaimed in her exotic, erotic voice. "He looks like a wolf. What kind of dog is this?"
"That's Jesse," I answered. "He was a genius dog, a Belgian Shepherd."
"Yes," she said, studying his pictures. "You can see the intelligence in his eyes."
Leaning close I gazed whistfully at his picture. "He was a wonderful dog. Smart, sweet, sensitive. Like you, beautiful to look at."
"What became of him?" she asked.
I grimmaced, not wanting to shed a sentimental tear. "He was a great dog. I really loved that dog. Truly, my best friend," I answered. "But the problem with having a dog, is that they only live so long. He died when he was 13. His death just tore me up."
"I want a dog," Niloofar suddenly announced, her voice ringing with excitement. "I want a dog, just like this. What kind of dog did you say he is?"
"A Beligian Shepherd."
Two months later, an adorable 10 week old male Beligian Shepherd puppy arrived, air freight, from Canada.
"He looks just like a wolf, like a lion, a tiger," Niloofar squeeled with delight. "I will call him Tiger. Tiger Wolf!"
And so "Tiger Wolf" came to brighten our home, and he was as cute and smart as cute and smart could be.
My life had now undergone a complete makeover. I had "Tiger Wolf" and Niloofar, the woman of my dreams, and I was happy as happy could be.
Niloofar, however, had yet another major makeover planned for my life. She was going to completely redorate and remodel my house.
"But I thought you liked my house," I said with considerable misgivings when I listened to her plans.
Niloofar rolled her flashing eyes. "Everything is old."
"Antiques," I corrected her.
"I do not want to live in a museum," she answered. "Everything must go."
As little Tiger bit and chewed on my pants, trying to entice me to play "get the ball," my eyes grew wide with alarm. "What do you mean, everthing?"
"Everything means everything," she sighed.
"Even my Persian rugs?" I had dozens of Persian rugs, rugs upon rugs which completely covered the oakwood floors of my Victorian home.
"Everything," she answered.
"Not my roll top desk!" I complained. "It's solid oak. Worth over $20.000.00."
"It must go," she replied, dismissively.
"And what about my four poster bed? It's solid oak!"
"Everything is oak. Everything is the same." she answered. "And everything is old and masculine. Like a cave-man lives here."
"But I thought you loved my bed?" I protested.
"I loved loving you in your bed. Now I shall love you in our bed. Look," she said as she flipped open a designer catolog.
I sat silently, saying nothing, suppressing my growing dismay, as she excitedly pointed out the new furnishings for "our" house.
Her choices made me feel increasingly uncomfortable and unhappy. I felt strangled. Couldn't breath. I kept thinking: we are not even married yet and already she wants to change everything! Finally, I could take no more.
"You're going to turn our house into a Macy's show room" I blurted. "Niloofar, if we make just half the changes you're suggesting, I'd want to hang myself. I wouldn't be able to stand living here."
Laughing dismissively, she simply opened another catolog and replied: "No, not Macy's. It will be a Niloofar show room. Trust me. It will be elegant. You will love it."
"I don't think so," I replied miserably.
Setting down the catolog she ran her fingers through my hair, across my cheek, down my chest, and as she unzipped my pants, she smiled up at me with lightning in her smoldering eyes.
Eyes of fire. Face of desire. I was helpless in her embrace. And so, yes, I agreed to entrust my, that is, our home, to her elegant taste.
I kept the roll top desk! Had it moved up into my office-study, the "cave" as she called it, on the second floor. It wasn't a "cave" at all, but a sunroom, all glass, with a glass-ceiling and southern exposure, meaning it was sunny all day and amazing at night. Niloofar would often join me there, and together we would lay in each other arms, talking philosophy, politics, psychology and art, while gazing at the moon and the stars.
As the stars twinkled up above
and the moon spoke of love
....we held and touched, and kissed along the shore
where tiny fishes stream
...and made love within a dream...
Niloofar, the girl of dreams made my heart soar on eagle's wings.
Niloofar was my dream and my life. Between her and Tiger Wolf, our "baby" as she called him, my every day was filled with joy and light.
I even liked, for the most part, the "elegant, cultured, and classy" appearance of "our" house, which, as she explained, was still a work in progress.
My only true source of discomfort were the frequent intrusion of her friends and family. The marriage ceremony was still two months away, but as she had moved in and was rapidly transforming "our" house into an elegant showpiece, all manner of folk, including my mother and sisters, would arrive to ooh and awe.
Thankfully, I could retreat to the "cave," or could slip away and go for a long walk with little Tiger Wolf. What a smart and loveable dog he was. I almost loved him as much as I loved Niloofar.
Niloofar also loved Tiger. She adored him and was constantly amazed at what a smart dog he was. She couldn't have shown more pride if he were her own baby.
It is because of her love of Tiger, that she insisted that both of us accompany her on yet another excursion with her friends; this time, Roxanne and her new husband, Izak.
It had been an exceptionally hot week, and Sunday we were all going to the beach.
I said nothing, but the entire manner in which the trip had been planned and the destination in question, Ocean Beach, San Francisco, irked me to no end:
"It will be beautiful" Niloofar assured me, sensing my displeasure. "Tiger can run free on the beach which is part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area."
"OK. But don't say I didn't warn you. The water will be cold, and the rip tides and undertow are very powerful."
She wrinkled her brow: "What are these rip tides and under toad? Frogs in the water?"
I laughed. "It means no swimming," I replied.
We took Highway One from the south bay to San Francisco, a beautiful drive along the Pacific coast, with towering redwood trees on the right and ocean-blue to the left. But what made it most memorable were those Niloofar-kisses. Every few miles, as she chattered away about her "elegant" plans for the house and our upcoming "magnificent" wedding, my Niloofar would lean over and kiss me.
I was as happy as happy can be.
We found parking at the end of Golden Gate Park, just above Ocean beach. Niloofar quickly spied Roxanne and her husband down by the shore, and with Tiger leashed by her side, she ran excitedly down toward the water and embraced her friends.
When I think of it now, it was like a dream. The beautiful blue ocean waters, the warm white sand and the glowing sun up above. The laughter of Niloofar and Roxanne as they held hands and frolicked along the shore, and little Tiger Wolf, chasing and barking at the sea gulls.
Izak explained that he had brought a barbecue grill but it was back in his SUV. Would I help him lug it from the parking lot? he asked. Then we could barbecue on the beach!
"Sure, why not?" I said, and off we went.
It took much longer than I expected, twenty minutes or more, as Izak had to unpack that and this. But the moment we set off back toward the beach I sensed something was amiss.
People were running from every direction toward a group of frantic people standing at the water's edge. A small boat was rapidly motoring toward them, but was still 100 yards distant from the shore.
Where was Niloofar? Where was Tiger?
I began running, too, running, running, as if in slow motion, along the sand, toward the frantic crowd, scanning up and down the beach and the churning water's edge.
Where was she?
"Niloofar" I yelled frantically.
A woman turned toward me, and cried out my name. It was Roxanne. But Niloofar and Tiger were nowhere to be seen.
I pushed my way through the curious crowd, their eyes trained on the foaming sea.
"Where is Niloofar?" I demanded, trying to catch my breath.
Roxanne pointed toward the churning ocean waters.
"Her dog, Tiger..." she said between gasps. "He was chasing the birds in the water...and then he...he disapear...Niloofar, she ran into the water..." she gasped and then burst into tears.
A pot bellied old man, in a speedo swimsuit, chimed in: "The dog was chasing sea gulls" he said, "when it just disapeared beneath the waves. Undertow must have got him. Sucked him right in. That woman, she was frantic, hysterical, she dived in right after him...those riptides..."
"Where, where?" I yelled.
I ran where he pointed, tossing off my clothes. Somebody grabbed my arm, trying to hold me back, but I shook him away. Wading into the churning water, fighting the pull of the riptides, I kept yelling her name and diving beneath the water...but it was too late.
"Over here" someone yelled, pointing at something beneath the waves, at the water's edge.
It was Niloofar.
Niloofar, with Tiger in her arms, had just washed to shore.
Pushing everyone aside, I fell to my knees and cradled her in my arms.
She was ice cold. Wet.
Seaweed was tangled in her hair.
Her head fell back...her eyes vacant... lifeless...
Tiger and Niloofar were....
"No!" I howled. "Please, God! No. No. No."
I couldn't stop crying and kissing her face. Rivers of tears fell from my eyes as I called her name:
"Oh, God! No, no no..." I howled.
The love of my life!
My Niloofar was dead.
how I wonder...
yes, I wonder,
where you are.
And wish I may.
Wish I might.
Hold you in my arms tonight.
How I love you.
Yes I love you you're so fine.
And I'll always
love you baby
I love you 'till the end of time.