Lashes for Days

I lust for men with middle-eastern features. A hooked nose, dark hair, dark piercing eyes, a sharp jawline, a deep voice with which he speaks broken accented English — maybe he speaks Arabic, maybe he speaks Urdu or maybe he speaks Farsi — who knows? His hair is either too short, like a close buzz or too long; like flowy beach waves reaching down to his waist. His brows are kohl black and he has lashes for days.

He looks up and catches my gaze in that restaurant I was sitting solo at sipping on my mint tea. He walks over and asks, "Can I buy you lunch in exchange for helping me read this menu, my English is broken?" I say, "Only if you tell me a story about where you are from."

That lunch turns to drinks that turn to dinner and then post-dinner drinks. It feels like we've known each other for a long time — like college friends meeting after years. We walk back to my hotel room and there are no two says that I want him to come inside, play with my hair and take me on the marble counter top. He moans words I do not understand but they send shivers down my spine. He finishes with a deep exclamation and when I ask him what he said, he turns to me, with his breathing still heavy and says, "It means 'You Killer!' in Farsi".