Good thing I’m not a Muslim.
I’m in Muscat, with its scent of frankincense mingled with the salt air of the Arabian sea. The call to prayer, here somewhat monotonous, mesmerizing me into a trance as the 100 degree heat seeps into my pores.
I am in the Middle East for all of Ramadan except for the fun part – Eid – the feast at the end of the month that involves delicious sweets and much merrymaking. My timing is the result of poor and I would say subconsciously masochistic planning. Oman is not the worst of the Gulf, but I have been in Muscat for weeks and I am bored. There is only so much frankincense I can inhale and consume (it’s so good in coffee!). I need sex during Ramadan.
And this is how I find myself on a second date with a gorgeous Indian man almost twenty years my junior. He has big eyes, chiseled features and a posture that ring a dead giveaway for his warrior caste descendancy. His skin is very dark, and his perfect teeth sparkle on its background. He has lived his life between Muscat and Bengaluru, and has been living by choice in India since he reached adulthood, but his schoolboy friends are all here in Muscat still, as well as his family.
I am shocked and pleased by the massive amount of Indians in the Middle East as imported service, management, and tech. I didn’t know that the Gulf is more than 50% “expat” until arriving and marveling at it.
It doesn’t always go so well for those living it. There’s always a trade-off between the economic opportunities afforded outside of their home country and the rights not afforded inside of the Gulf country. They won’t be able to retire in their host country, and many times they’re paying off a debt that has them living as an indentured servant in everything but name.
My date’s family did well, and things have changed in India since his father left there for better fortunes. Things have moved forward so much so that now the son has returned to India for those fortunes. Either way, this month, my Indian lover is back in Muscat, also looking for sex during Ramadan.
After so much time spent with his family, my Indian lover is glad for a chance to get away and be an adult again, especially with someone else that doesn’t observe Ramadan. When we first meet we talk for six hours straight over the best coffee in town, which is a hipster place, not a local joint. I don’t find great food in Muscat, not much consistency.
Omanis are good at frankincense and curved knives, but the rest of their culture seems kind of sloppy and loose around the edges, especially as compared to the tighter-feeling desert cultures they share borders with.
In the Gulf in general, and Oman specifically, I learn to just shut the taxi door if they are Arab/Omani, because the chances of being able to read a map, follow GPS, or understand destinations or origins are slim, especially compared to their Indian counterparts who give perfect service and comprehension with a smile. Horrible racist profiling, yes – but it saves me a great deal of money and time.
My date is brilliant, a stoner, a psychedelic explorer, and a philosopher, and at 24, he beats my age gap record. He’s getting into app development and hopes to run a startup. I smile at this. He’s a Bengaluru stereotype, yet in a way that I hadn’t expected. He’s perfect for sex during Ramadan.
On our next date, our sex during Ramadan date, I pick him up from a grocery store parking lot in one of the many Muscat strip malls carved out of the Omani desert. He gets in my car, wearing light, loose pants and a tan short sleeved shirt. The contrast of the fabric on his skin has me staring.
I lean over and kiss him before realizing I’ve broken both the literal and religious law. He knows, of course, he grew up here. He came of age here. My Indian lover kisses me back with abandon, animal passion, hands on both sides of my face, sucking his tongue, fingers through his thick hair, his teeth give my lips as tug as he quickly pulls away and gives a look around.
Back at the Airbnb we strip our clothing and I break out the bottle of Patron I smuggled in. We sit on the edge of the bed, facing inwards from the window. Windows in Muscat seem to always face other buildings, likely to keep in the cool. The desert heat rises into triple digit fahrenheit territory and sends everyone scrambling for solutions.
After we’re a little tipsy my Ramadan lover pulls out a little pastry box and feeds me Omani coconut macaroons. I feed him back.
“We have to be thorough, here.” he says, winking. It’s not just sex during Ramadan, we’re breaking all the rules we can.
My Ramadan date introduces me to Dokha.
“What is it?”
“In Arabic it means ‘dizziness’. It’s just really concentrated tobacco mixed with some kind of herbs and spices.” he says. I’m thinking that herbs and spices could be anything, wondering if it’s synergistic, while he continues. “But it gets you super high. Like, you can pass out. People here smoke it a lot. I’ve seen Omanis build a really high tolerance to it though. I see them smoking it behind the wheel!”
“How can you tell it’s dokha?”
“Because you use a special pipe called a midwakh, here…” he pulls out the paraphernalia and a glass bottle with a screw-top. Inside is what looks like crappy, ground up weed, but is a finer consistency. Flecks of brown and green.
We smoke it. I feel a surging rush to my head, which leaves me lightheaded and smiling.
He inhales it a few times and drops to the bed, woozy, breathing his way through the intense experience. I trace my fingers lightly over his body and he undulates into them, purring.
“I wish we had some weed.” I say.
I like that he tends to work in an either/or and a give/take when it comes to flirting with me.
He’s a feminist.
This evidenced by his absolute lack of giving a fuck about my period. I am pungent and I mention it, and he waves away any protests.
“I don’t have any sense of smell.” he reminds me, pulling me knees apart and kissing my thigh and groin and licking into my bloody pussy before teasing my clit softly. “Tastes delicious, though.” he says.
“How can you taste with no sense of smell?” I wonder aloud, but then lose any interest in an answer and luckily he’s lost any interest in answering. He spirals his tongue broadly against me and I feel the rise of heat and the gears catch, winding me into a back-arching release.
My Ramadan lover experiments with my clitoris. He runs tests along the length and finds his results across the width. With focus and precision he details every fold of my hood, his slick tongue diving along the slopes of my nub away and back.
He has an earnest, serious look on his face that I see every time it pops up from between my legs and orgasms, and he keeps going until I am thoroughly spent and happy with sex during Ramadan.
I grab a slug of tequila and kiss him, sharing half of it with him.
And I’m diving onto his cock, short but wide, pulling back dark brown foreskin as the bright pink head mushrooms out. One hand cups his balls and the other on his shaft, and I devour his girth.
“I have an uncut Indian cock” he says, as though I didn’t notice, and as some sort of disclaimer.
“Just the way I like it.” I say, coming up for air, and I feel him relax. I try not to think about the cultural imperialism of US pornography that got him to say such a thing.
Another round of dokha, this time exhaling through my nose and letting it take me into a whirlwind dizzy, lying back on the bed I suck one finger and stick the other one in my pussy and then use them against each side of my clit, enjoying the contrast between spit and pussy juice slickness. By now I’m so wet it’s washed the blood away.
My Indian lover is staring at me, and I see his dick harden. He grins.
“Looks like I’m ready again” he says bashfully, looking down at his cock and staring at my hands working between my legs.
I point lazily to the condoms I left by the bedside table. He dons one and enters me missionary, but I don’t remove my hands. The feeling of him pushing into me sends me over the edge and I’m coming around his first thrust.
“Fuck me how you want to” I invite.
He holds my face, thumb in my mouth joined by his tongue as he fucks me in short, swift strokes. His breath and his scent mingle with the smell of blood and frankincense.
My Indian lover pulls out and flips me over, lying prone on the bed he uses his knees to shove my legs together and I’m cuntpunched with joy and booze and nicotine as he carefully finds my pussy again and pumps his way inside me, grabbing my wrists for leverage and lightly licking my neck and ears while he drives his way to climax as my cunt twitches with lust and appreciation.
By this time there are bloody handprints all over the Airbnb sheets. I make a mental note to leave extra $$ to cover new sheets.
Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:
1: Becoming a cougar: The Persian Lovers: Becoming a Cougar
2. Israeli at Burning Man: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim
3. Persian stripper at Burning Man: Persian Stripper
4. Flashback to when I was 19 (this one is about a younger woman/older man): The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)
My favorite cub:
1: How we met, also a story about period sex: The Persian Lovers: Bardia I
2: Bardia on Drugs: The Persian Lovers: Babysitter
3: Meeting in Boston: The Persian Lovers: Bardia in Boston
4: Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge