I’m spending a couple months at my parents’ house in Boulder, Colorado. Boulder is homogenous, wealthy, and white, and I am bored and restless. I begin accepting Couchsurfers, looking for some diverse interactions. A 25-year old Persian from Shiraz, Iran who has studied in the US for the last 4 years contacts me.
His profile doesn’t say much, other than his name “Bardia”, but his references show him to have used every break and vacation he had during his studies to travel the United States. I see without fail that every time period that the US collegiate system would give him free – he was methodically making his way through regions. He has been to and through almost every state by this point. I’m impressed.
Still, I don’t expect much from his photo, and when he arrives I’m not looking to make an impression. I answer the door in my pajamas. He’s tall, dark, lanky, and incredibly handsome. He has the features I identify as classically Persian – European bone structure with creamy, golden brown skin, thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, thick, black hair. I swallow the shame of being unkempt while giving him a hug hello. He also seems taken aback. His eyes are locked to my face.
He takes off his shoes, a scuffed, tan pair of leather dress shoes with tight, wiry laces. He wears no socks.
“Is it okay if I am barefoot in your home?”
he asks before taking a step. I see that he, like me, is a veteran guest, and knows how to behave politely in strangers’ homes no matter what culture he is in. His accent rings out as Persian and slightly British, but also USAmerican, it seems just slightly cultivated to be unique.
“Yes.” I say smiling.
I show Bardia to his room, a makeshift foam mattress on the carpeted floor of my mother’s office. He puts down his backpack, which is frayed. I notice his clothing is secondhand. I am wowed by this Iranian grad student who travels America with no money. We start to chitchat.
I feel young being in my parents’ house, and his lilting accent makes me feel younger. He’s still a student, and there’s something excitable and boyish in his demeanor. As he becomes comfortable with me, he begins firing incessant questions. I enjoy the interest, but notice that his attention span is short for the answers. He talks in a voice higher than his register and I wonder, for an instant, if he is gay, but the way he interacts with me contradicts it. I can feel the chemistry.
As soon as possible I excuse myself to take a shower. He is in his room contacting his previous host to let them know he made it. He stayed in Denver prior. Again I admire that he is taking the time to see the US. He reminds me of an elf, a gentleman, a teacher, a poet, a boy, and a master, I like the flavor, unique in the world.
I dress in a wine red tank top, a supportive, slightly padded bra that barely contains the girls, and a pair of black cotton shorts. When I come out of my room to find him, he says
I’m grinning. “Are you hungry?”
“Always”. He says. I can tell that the double meaning is lost on him. He’s young. And adorable.
I cook for him. He happily gobbles it down.
Then it is time to meet my parents. We all hang out for a while. Bardia and I sit on the floor while my parents are above us. The energy is again playful, and childlike. Here I am in my 40’s, playing with my playmate with supervision from my parents. Bardia sees my father likes to teach and questions him to exhaustion. I enjoy listening. He doesn’t leave me out, and asks me questions as he sees my father’s answers shorten. I become more and more flirtatious.
“You have been to so many countries!” he exclaims.
“Yes, I have.” I say, while nodding.
“That’s my dream. Someday.” he smiles wistfully. I’m not yet aware of the full limitations on his passport. I will be. But now – all an Iranian passport is to me is exotic because it is later he will show it to me. It is the first time that I see one… but not the last.
The passport says on it, in English “The bearer of this passport is barred from Occupied Palestine”. I startle on seeing it.
“Oh, wow, they mean Israel.” I say out loud.
“Yes.” he says, taking the passport out of my hands. I notice as he does that Bardia is not his name.
“Hey what’s with your name? It’s not Bardia, it’s… how do you say it?”
“Khashayar, and yes… that you can’t say it… that’s exactly why everyone calls me Bardia.”
At the sound of “Khashayar” I get such a visceral, turned on reaction that my abdominal muscles clench and I can feel myself get my period.
I waiver, for a moment in my mind. Does this mean no nookie? I think of one of my favorite songs on the subject and decide to give him more credit. I’m glad I’m wearing period undies and just take it.
“That’s a hot name.” I say.
“Thank you,” he says beaming “do you know how to say it in English?” I see his boyish glee fade into passionate educator, and the glimpse of the contrast in roles and archetypes within him has me tingling.
“It’s Xerxes.” He smiles. I smile. Head cocked. I decide to be real.
“Yeeeeeaah, Bardia – I am a dumb American. Probably less dumb than other Americans, in that I saw Xerxes the Opera performed at the Royal Opera House in London when I was 12, but I didn’t appreciate it or understand it and I have no idea who Xerxes is.”
And then he teaches me about ancient kings commanding massive multi-ethnic armies.
I watch him take on the role of teacher, and the power dynamic shifts entirely. Suddenly I’m a schoolgirl. A dumb American.
“Even Jews served” he says, eyes twinkling, not a hint of shyness, as he touches me on the arm. “And it is the failed invasion of Greece that the West knows Xerxes for, but the successes in Egypt and Babylon and so much more is what Khashayar is known for.”
“So many kings.” I say, staring at him. Again, he misses the double meaning.
But now it is earlier. And we are in the living room with my parents still. And I am being questioned by Bardia about my interest in Iran. After learning that Bardia is the name of one of Cyrus’ sons, I am telling him what I know about Cyrus the Great, another Persian King, learned in bed with another Persian…
“Why do you want to go to Iran?” he interrupts.
I pause. “The men?” I chuckle. I can feel my parents rolling their eyes. Bardia is grinning.
It’s not long before the parental chitchat ends, and Bardia and I make our way upstairs.
“Do you want to hang out and talk some more in my room?” I ask.
He’s already walking towards my room before I finish the sentence. His interest in me is not hidden at all. I am not sure whether it is cultural, whether the usual shyness of the cub isn’t a thing because he’s so far outside his context – or whether it’s just his personality – and he’s brazen, no qualms at all about trying to sleep with his bleeding Couchsurfing host so many years his senior while in her parents’ home.
“So you like Iranian men.” he says, looking me straight in the eyes, his voice lower in register.
“Yes. What do you think of American women?” I ask.
He pauses. “To be honest, well… I like American women, some of them. But, I really don’t like American girls. The weird high-pitched voice. The ‘like, literally’. I’ve been on a college campus for four years. Something isn’t right here with the girls.”
“Do you like Iranian women?”
“Oh, no, women or girls, American is better.” he hides his smile, casting his head downward a bit, bashful. “I like the Jewish American women the best.” he looks up again, locking my eyes “So smart. So independent. So beautiful”
Soon we are on the floor. He wonders why I have bouncy balls and lacrosse balls, and marvels at how feminine it is that they are all pink. I show him they are for self massage. He plays with them a bit, and then starts rolling them to me. The games commence and we are arms crossed stealing balls legs crossed rolling balls wrestling over balls and then breathless we kiss and the balls roll away. And we roll.
I can tell he doesn’t like to kiss. He breaks away and for a moment I wonder if the pressure has been released…
…maybe he didn’t like what he tasted?
“Are you sure this is okay with your parents here?” he asks. I reassure him.
“It’s fine, I’m an adult, they’re one story away listening to loud music and have no interest in knowing what we’re doing. There are few taboos against sex in my family.” I explain. I wonder about his culture and his age, and if he will let it stop is.
“Can we get in your bed?” he grins. I am reassured.
And we’re in the bed and still I feel him going through the motions, and realize that his disinterest in kissing didn’t have anything to do with nervousness about my parents. He was redirecting me away from something.
I miss the glee, and I’m searching for it… and our shirts come off and he loops his finger underneath my bra strap and tugs on it and I feel the surge to his cock which shifts against my leg.
“What do you like?” I ask, head cocked. I know I’m on the edge of it and have caught him liking something he doesn’t like that he likes.
He buries his head in the pillows. His head is set forward on his shoulders in a way I know will cause him pain when older – but reveals how stuck in his mind he is now. I massage the back of his neck.
“You can tell me.” I purr
He completely drops the shy act. I’m grinning. “I’m into clothing.” he admits. “Tight, slutty, but well-put together clothes.” he says.
I pull back a bit. “So you like to look at me.” I say, looking down on him. He shudders on being seen and heard.
“Yesssss.” He hisses, and his hand drops to his own cock.
I grab my tank top and put it back on, but pull it low so the neck of it is at nipple level, pulled tight across the center of my breasts. The seam cuts a line into the softness even through the bra, and they bulge above and below. Now there are two sets of straps, and I let the tank top spaghetti straps slide off my shoulders while the bra straps remain tight. I arch my back and lean over him.
“Oh Yessssssssss.” He’s rubbing himself through his pants, entranced. I grab his hand and stop him.
“Me first.” I command. Putting his hand on my pussy.
“I don’t know how.” he says, squeezing me in ways that prove otherwise. Thus commences a small conversation about how many partners he’s had before me. One. In the US. He is flushed and excited getting to tell about it, but his description isn’t very intimate. After I ask if he ever pleased her he says “I guess yes, I remember something about that.”
His narcissism is just on the verge of annoying me, but somehow he is still hot.
“So you’ve never slept with a Couchsurfing host?” I ask.
“No….. have you?” he asks.
“I’ve never slept with a Surfer…” I trail off. I can tell he likes the idea of me sleeping with a host. Changing the subject, I hold his face in my hands and kiss his forehead, and then slowly admit “I have my period, and I’m bleeding heavily.”
“I don’t care.” he says. It’s clear he’s past the point of caring about anything.
I grab a nearby towel, glad that I am a bit slobby lately and have left one hanging on the arm of the modern Scandinavian design sofabed. Folding it once, I place it under me.
“I’m wearing period underwear, if I take them off you’ll smell the blood and more. It doesn’t sound like you’ve had much experience so I’m telling you.” I explain. My young Persian lover slides his arm under my neck and pulls me close. I feel his other hand pulling my underwear down over my hips on the right side, so I help him by pulling down and off the left side.
“We’re all human.” he says, with a little shrug, and slides his fingers deftly from my hipbone, over my belly, over my mound, parting my hairs, slipping into my folds and resting perfectly on my clit. “Show me how?” he asks, in the little boy voice.
“You’re doing just fine” I gasp. “Little circles.” He obliges.
“I want to please you.” he whispers in my ear. He’s ginger with his finger, and my clit is slippery and aching to be touched now.
“A little harder, but not faster” my breath is already ragged. He gives me a little more pressure.
“You’re so beautiful” he says. His other hand is pulling my hair back from my face, turning it slightly. I can see he is positioning me how he likes to see me, he doesn’t like my hairstyle, he just wants to see my face. And he really wants to see it from a certain angle. He is rubbing me faster now, as he breathes harder looking at me.
“A little slower.” I say.
“I like how you say ‘a little’” he says, his voice deeper. He slows his stroke. “It’s so American.” he says. “Are you going to come for me a little, beautiful American girl?” he asks.
I’m at the edge, put there by his voice, I feel myself tipping over. I’m moaning. “Don’t stop.” I want him to keep talking. He does.
“I love looking at you while you come, beautiful little American girl.”
And I’m shuddering and moaning and I press my eyes closed and come extra hard knowing that he is staring at me in wonder and awe and lust.
He immediately rolls on top of me.
“Should I get a condom?” I ask.
“Yes please.” his voice is boyish again, but distant. I slither out from under him and grab a condom and unwrap it, then offer it to him, but he stops me “Please, you put it on.” He sits up cross-legged.
I grab his cock. It’s softer than it was and I register again that this isn’t his direction exactly, but he sits back and hardens as he watches me unroll the condom onto his beautiful, golden tan, circumcised cock. So far every cock of every Persian lover I have been with has been different in size and shape. His is like his body, slightly longer, lean. Handsome.
He responds to my touch instantly, and I am again reminded of his age. My young Persian lover pushes me down on the bed and enters me swiftly and I forget.
Bardia fucks me in long, even strokes, looping his fingers through the straps on my tank top and bra, knotting them around his hands, watching the way the flesh of my breasts and shoulders and neck responds to different pressure. Pulling and pushing.
I usually don’t like being fetishized, but there is something new and different about the way he does it that hits a narrow but satisfying spot. There’s some hint of artistry in it. He wants to create me, to improve me. I don’t feel ignored for the fetish, rather, I feel specifically and deeply desired – yet at the same time there is something grating and impersonal about it, it’s fraught with judgment, the friction of which just gets me even more hot. I dissociate slightly as I see he is also. He’s trying to make this work for him. I think about shifting positions.
“We can do anything.” I whisper in his ear.
He looks me in the eyes and sees all the things he’s ever wanted to do. He groans. “Oh… next time… oh, just thinking about it. Oh no” and he loses it. My Persian lover comes and collapses on top of me. He’s grinning, again meeting my eyes unabashed, the shyness disappeared. “I wish I could have lasted longer.”
“It’s ok.” I say, laughing. “You’re young. I bet next time will be very soon.”
This story is 1 of 4 dedicated to Bardia:
Bardia on Drugs: Babysitter
Meeting in Boston: Hot Cougar Roleplay
Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge
Like stories about Persians? Read about other Persian Lovers.
Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:
1: Becoming a cougar: Becoming a Cougar
2. Israeli at Burning Man: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim
3. Persian stripper at Burning Man: Persian Stripper
4. Indian lover in Muscat: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan
5. Flashback to when I was 19 (this one is about a younger woman/older man): The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)