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The Persian Lovers: The First Persian

As my desire for Persian men deepens, I reflect on the Persians I’ve been with before, and at first forget about Darab – my first Persian lover – because he doesn’t fit any of the profiles I’ve set up for myself around Persians. He is Baháʼí, not Muslim. He is my age, or slightly older, I can’t quite remember, because I was in my 30’s when we met. Darab was born in Iran, but his parents came to the US just before the revolution, fleeing persecution for their faith. His memories of childhood are ones of recent immigration, not ones of Iran.

Despite that I lived in “Tehrangeles” for 15 years, surrounded by the highest concentration of Persians outside of Iran, Darab was my first Persian lover, and it wasn’t until after I had already moved away from Los Angeles and was back in town on a short visit that I hooked up with him. 

This was before I began traveling full-time outside of the United States. This was before I’d been anywhere outside of the West except Tokyo. My experiences of the world entirely shifted who I find attractive, and what it takes to turn me on. This was back when I would settle. 

I settled for Darab. He was pleasant.

Living in Los Angeles I felt no attraction to Persians. I hadn’t even distinguished them, having erroneously and racistly lumped them in the same category with Armenians – who of course express very different behaviors than Persians both in Armenia and in Los Angeles. Most Iranians and Armenians would have been offended by that miscategorization. I am offended by it.

It’s not until after I’m away from Los Angeles for a few years that I get the Persian lover bug, and because of it I am rueful about the time I wasted in the sea of Persian lovers that exist there without making it to my first Persian lover… but this is before any of that. 

I come into Los Angeles trying to distract myself from Foryst, still running through my veins. I see The Plant Whisperer there for the first time since we broke up from a 6 month long relationship. The Plant Whisperer invites me home and we spend some nights together, but I still choose to date while in town. 

I’m not looking for it, but I let it find me.

I see the message from Darab and his super white teeth against his smooth brown skin, every photo on his dating profile sporting his hair pushed up and back by ski or swim goggles, and backed by an appropriate sporty, snowy or oceany background.

The first thing I said to him when responding to his initial message was:

“I’m not sporty.” Almost immediately he replied:

“I like curvy women.” I smile. He must, if he knows the insecurity behind my initial reaction. His message continues “I can tell by your photos you’re fit in all the places I like. You don’t get legs like that from sitting on a couch”

And so we meet. Twice. The first time, we meet at Venice Ale House and sit by the boardwalk, overlooking the Pacific and a bunch of crazies traversing the boardwalk, and have salads and sparkling water. We talk about our lives and I am caught in that place where he is dashing and handsome and… very, very boring. He went to high school. College. Some State school. He reminisces about Hollywoodesque stereotypical fraternity experiences. Darab works as a paralegal. He has friends he hangs out with once or twice a week. He goes skiing and snowboarding. My first Persian lover used to surf but now doesn’t have as much time because of work.

That’s it. 

I consider the other men that I have dated for their looks, and how absolutely unsatisfied I have been, if not disgusted. I do it anyway. He’s freaking gorgeous.

He drives me to my friend’s house in Venice where I am staying for the night. I’m surprised when he leans in for the kiss. It’s sloppy and awful and uncoordinated. Still… I can’t get over those cheekbones. That thick, black hair. Those shiny, white teeth.

He messages me a few days later, says he can’t stop thinking about the kiss. I’m surprised, because it was not a good kiss by any measure.

“SO passionate.” he texts. I feel a little tight in my throat. It’s not a turned on kind of tight.

I wonder about my own self-love as I arrange another date with him, and arrange it for the day I am driving out of town. I already know I will fuck him and that it will not be great. 

Persian Lover

But it is great, in some key ways. 

Before we spend an early afternoon in his bed in his cozy one bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, we sit talking in his living room, half full of snowboards, skis, surfboards, wetsuits, and other gear that I am not sporty enough to recognize. He serves me Iranian tea and dark chocolate on blue and white geometrically patterned ceramic teaware from Iran. He holds his teacup delicately in two hands, one supporting the bottom and the other wrapped around the cup. It is conscious, and present, and substantial in its suggestions of ritual in a way no American frat boy would or could display in their body. But here he is, an American frat boy, and my first Persian lover.

And at that, he has me. The contrast is hot. He doesn’t look like an American frat boy. He looks like my first Persian lover.

There is something sweet and earnest about him, and as well honest. He describes himself as looking for someone with whom he has that special spark. I think we both already know I’m not that person. 

And we kiss, and he tastes of tea and smells of … saffron. 

And I marvel at this white American inside the genetics of something exotic, and spicy. His skin tastes good, and the sloppiness subsides and I melt into a solid, fit body and strong arms.

I let the judgment go. The part of myself that just can’t find attraction in the choosing of a Standard American Life over something else, something precious, something small. I see the ways the things I associate with Iran are often wrapped with Islam, and I feel in him something else, something I do not know. 

The way he touches me is not judgmental. It is loving. 

“Would you like to move to the bed?” he asks. I simply nod, and move there.

Darab’s hands slide carefully over every curve. He slowly, patiently discovers my feet, and I’m wondering for a moment if he has a foot fetish, but the further up my legs he gets, the more distant this thought.

Darab massages my thighs and hips and takes time to learn the nuance of my bone structure with his hands. He kneads my belly and makes circles with his hands around my waist, inching higher until his fingers circle around my breasts.

Everywhere he touches on my body he makes noises of appreciation, grunts, sighs, singsong tones, sucks of air, surprise, delight, glee, joy, pleasure. 

It is musical, and I lie back into his soft pillows and just let everything happen, purring now and then to let him know where to spend time. My body rises and falls to meet his touch, undulating under his fingers.

He delicately cups my face, pulls his thumbs from my hairline, lightly over my closed eyes, along my cheeks, to my chin. I open my eyes.

“Hello” I say.

“Hello!” he says “I’m so grateful to share your body.” he is stroking me, cupping me, pulling me, my first Persian lover.

“Take off your shirt.” I command.

He does and his body is beautiful, sculpted by the things he loves to do with it. It’s my turn to trace every muscle. His ski pole lats, his snowboard quads, his surfer abs. His skin is smooth and he’s not very hairy, unlike the Persians I will meet later. He gets goosebumps as I pay him attention.

Now he relaxes back and lets me work my way from his shoulders to his pecs. His abs are soft but taught, outlines visible through his skin but there is a pliable layer that doesn’t pull him into any cut, bodybuilding look. He is supple.

I think briefly of Foryst, with the body of a rock climber, hard, and locked. I try not to think about him and focus on my first Persian lover.

There is movement in Darab’s muscles. They ripple and wave, and I sail the ocean of his skin. I kiss his abs down to the hip bones poking out from above his black jeans, meanwhile my fingers find their way to his belt and feel his body tighten. Quickly I undo the button on his pants and unzipping his jeans he lets out a moan as his cock springs out, encased in a white pair of boxers.

Curling my fingers under the waistband of his jeans and boxers I give them a tug and he lifts his hips to let me slide them off of him, pulling his socks with them along the way. 

And he is naked. He’s a work of art.

Thick quads show, dark, shiny hairs curl into spirals of whorls. Darab’s chiseled, smooth torso rises out of the wooly base of powerful legs like a centaur. And his large, hard, circumcised, cock stands out, head purplish fading to pink at the very center. I want to carve him out of marble and look at it forevermore.

I immediately suck his cock and he acts like no one has before, surprised, grateful, enthusiastic. It’s a little too big for my mouth, and the skin is oh so tight I’m careful not to nick him with my molars. He is moaning, but when I come up for air he stops me.

“I want to see you. I want to feel you. You’re so good at that I am afraid it will exhaust me.” 

He takes a deep breath and then lifts and flips me onto my back. I am surprised, I’m not used to being moved around, I am tall and thick. He moves me like it’s nothing and then strips my clothing off quickly.

“So gorgeous.” he says, nuzzling my knees, my waist, my neck. I hope he’ll go for my sex but he does not. He uses his hands. He kneels above me, one hand on his cock, idly keeping himself hard while his other hand fumbles for my clit. 

“Show me?” he asks. I show him. He isn’t mechanically skilled, and it takes him a while, and a lot of direction to figure it out. Eventually, I come, but it’s not the best orgasm. He seems proud of himself so I just cover for it by flipping my body around and licking his cock back to life. He rubs my back in long strokes and I feel him harden against my lips. 

“Your lips are so soft, I so want to be inside you” he says.

“Then come on in.” I open my legs, looking over my shoulder. 

He moves quickly, and grabs a condom from the drawer, and a bottle of lube. I watch as he puts one drop on each side of the condom, and see the pleasure on his face as he unrolls that condom tightly onto his cock. The ritual turns me on, the self-care, the calm before the storm.

He again flips me like I’m a feather and I reach down to position him correctly. He enters slowly and lets out a sigh. “You are so tight, oh my.”

Running my hands along Darab’s ass and thighs, feeling the different textures, taking in the scent of the place where his neck meets his jawline, kissing his neck. He’s again awkward, for someone who knows how to balance on surf or snow – he has no rhythm. He jerkily fucks me, and is overly into what he is doing. 

I place more pressure on his back, trying to get him to move less and more regularly, but it doesn’t work. Sadly, after a good 10 minutes of this I realize that he lasts longer than he’s advertised. 

“Do you want to change positions?” I ask. 

“I’m really close.” he replies.

I’m glad to hear it. And relieved seconds later when I feel his body tensing.

Again he transforms and suddenly he is working my pussy at a different angle and speed and I love the intensity and focus. My first Persian lover pumps me in shallow, steady strokes, his skin gleaming in the afternoon light. He makes ridiculous, stretched faces, so I stare at his chest and arms, muscles rippling as he works hard for his pleasure.

Darab groans in as he comes. It is not a hot groan.

We lie in bed a bit after, he takes off the condom and pees, washes his hands. I do as well. I’m glad he doesn’t jump up to clean himself. We kiss and hug for a few minutes.

I’m really relieved when my phone buzzes. I reach out and flip it over, look at it. It’s a text from The Plant Whisperer that just says

“Come over.”

“I have to go.” I say. 

“Aww.” he says. He kisses the top of my head. Darab knows that I am leaving town.

“I’ll always be back to Los Angeles.” I say, smiling. He seems a bit wistful. 

I get dressed, gather my things, and leave to see The Plant Whisperer one last time before driving East.

A few days later, Darab texts me to let me know he loved being in bed with me, but he just didn’t feel that spark, and he is still looking for it, and wishes me all the best in life. I smile and put down my phone, and we never communicate again. It is only when other Persians enter my life that I think of the first Persian lover. With a smile.


The next Persian lover: The Persian Lovers: Becoming a Cougar

Other One Night Stands:

1: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim

2: The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)

3: The Russian Lovers: Russian Kazakh Lover

4: Johnny the Cheesemonger

5: Nigeria is the Future

6: Stuck

7: Tantra


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