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Persian Stripper

I’m standing in the street frowning because I am now missing a Persian stripper, and I’m at Burning Man, and my BachelorX Party is just hours away, and it’s burn night, and I’m at the height of my Persian phase.

Where am I going to find a Persian stripper on burn night?

My Australian neighbor sees me pouting. 

“What’s the matter PowerCat?” he says, in his thick Sydney accent, hand on my shoulder and brow furrowed in real concern.

“I lost my Persian stripper for my BachelorX Party” I say, forlorn.

“You need a Persian stripper?” he says, “For a BachelorX Party?” clapping his hands together. “Follow me.”

Soon I stand in front of three Persian men that this magic fairy in pink leggings has manifested. There’s a clear winner.

“OoooooooOooooh!” the camp reacts to my choice. “She chose Kardaan….”

I’m told he’s a virgin. And a troublemaker. People are surprised I chose him. I am surprised anyone is surprised. He takes my breath away.

Kardaan is tall, and a rosy darkwood tan color, with a nice, dark 5 o’clock shadow and chiseled cheekbones that dip into dimples which compliment the upward turn of his deep russet eyes. He’s decidedly Persian looking, and was born in Scandinavia.

I’m also told that it turns out that J, said Australian neighbor, owns a business that does male entertainment called “Dad Bod Strip”. 

“She has something to ask you. She’s looking for a Persian stripper.” J says. Kardaan looks at me and grins.

“Do you speak it?” I ask my potential stripper.

“Fluently.” he says, holding my gaze and grinning even wider.

“Will you give me a lap dance at my BachelorX Party?” I ask him.

“Sure!” he nods. “But I never have before…” He looks me up and down “I am Persian though, and I want to.” He grins at me.

My heart jumps.

This next part is the part where I swallow my feelings and go back to my camp, giving it a 10% chance of actually happening, whilst unbeknownst to me, J and his colleague spend three hours training Kardaan to give me a lap dance.

Persian Stripper

I’ve a dram of Scotch in my hand and am fully dressed for the evening when suddenly the BacherlorX party (named so because I want both genders there) takes off. People are drinking, whooping and hollering and having a grand old time. I am, after all, getting married in about two weeks. Let the good times roll.

I am surprised in a whirlwind of activity, then suddenly being sat in a seat.

There’s cameras pointed at me from every direction.

And there’s a hot Persian man staring at me with a wrench over his shoulder.

He wears loose, desert-appropriate clothing. A pair of harem pants and a long sleeved, loose-necked shirt.

Badass Asian chick brings the music via a portable system and cues Earned It, by The Weeknd, which I’m never able to hear again without stopping and taking it in. All of it.  

And my 24-year-old hot Persian stripper pours every inch of his tall, lanky, gorgeous body and face into our very first lap dance. 

He has never done this and I have never had this done for me. It is slow. It is sensual. He reads me without issue.

Kardaan touches me first with the wrench. Then with his hands.

I know nothing about him. He’s tall. Handsome. Thin. Dark. It’s my party, and I like what I like.

Kardaan takes off his clothes for me. 

He looks shyly around but then at me, and I see the moment he has to tell himself something to actually go through with this thing. And I put out my desire out toward him as the thing to do this with. I’m shy too, I say, with my body language.

He unpeels smooth, brown skin and a smattering of black, shiny hair. Slowly the shirt is off. He teases me. Touches me, whispers Persian in my ear, and sits on my lap letting me feel every inch of him and run my hands over his smooth back that’s now just ever so slightly tacky from the sweat of his dance. 

He can’t dance, but he is learning how to move, and he has learned, clearly, that he should focus solely on me, and on giving me all of his attention, but not all of it at once.

Kardaan stands up again, swaying in front of me as everything but his underwear comes off. He doesn’t break eye contact with me. I see that he’s shy, that he is nervous, I see part of him that wants to laugh to break the energy, the attention. There’s a part of him that wants to call my bluff, to retreat. That is testing me.

This may be my first lap dance, but it is not my first rodeo. It’s not my first Burning Man.

My friend screams “Yeah Zoe, touch that!”

I have learned the art of surrender.

I down that dram of Scotch in one swallow and upturn my palms to him, inviting him, accepting him, receiving him. He’s gorgeous, and he’s just for me, and I don’t give a fuck who is watching.

Kardaan sees that in me and he’s all in. He’s dancing for me. I stare at him with pure lust. He puts his hands on me, faces the audience, let’s them see me stroke him. Sits on me. Stands behind me. Touches me, everywhere.

My friend screams “Yeah PowerCat, touch that Persian body

And then he sits on me, facing me. Pushes into me and whispers in Persian into my ear.

Pulls back and looks into my eyes. My hands find every contour of his young, taut form. He grinds on me and his cock jumps in a way only I can feel even though there’s a crowd of our friends there whistling and cheering us on.

He’s staring into my eyes as though he loves me and I love every minute of it. He cradles my face, facing me on my lap on the chair, rocking his hips ever so slightly. His lips are inches from mine.

The song ends.

My friend screams “Oh my fucking God that was hot!”

Kardaan pulls away, and the eager Australian says “how was that, PowerCat?”

“A fucking dream come true.” I say, still staring into his eyes. Kardaan winks at me and gets up.

The next day, the fateful Sunday, the last day, when everything falls apart for everyone – except at this point, this 21st year of mine, it does not. It does not anymore because I have been so many times that I’ve learned to ride out the wave of decline and the end of the temporarily transcendent. 

Maybe it helps as well that I do not know at the time it will be my last year. 

The next day, I see Kardaan on the street not too far from the potties. 

We walk by each other, and I turn my head and look back at him. 

“Hiiii Kardaan. Bye Kardaan.” I say, with a wink, wave, and wiggle.

He backs up to me and looks down at me, not saying anything. We’re standing very close but not touching.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, eyes wide. I have a faint feeling he’s on something, but he could also just be leaving this place he met for the first time. It’s his first time. I’ve been going since he was three.

I think about the rumors I’ve now heard about his understanding of consent and women and his mind being blown by the striptease teachings of the Australian and my own validation. 

And oh do I want to kiss this man.

“Yes please.” I nod.

And so the last day of my last year of twenty-one Burning Mans, this Persian stripper kisses me softly, letting me lead him in, steady in his desire, going deeper and deeper, making me weak in my knees.


Another story set at Burning Man

Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:

1: Becoming a cougar: The Persian Lovers: Becoming a Cougar

2. Indian lover in Muscat: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan

3. 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: 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


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