“Bahiyah.” My name is a pleading question. “Open the door kanala?” He sounds like he’s right there. On the other side of the unadorned white bathroom door. Waiting.
I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. The hotels stark white walls makes the swelling and pink of my lips more apparent. The blood had been rushing through my entire body a miniscule minute ago. My heart picks up a crescendo thinking about his mouth on mine. How we started unsure. Explorative. How it became a need to feel my tongue move against his. To push my softness against his hardness. To rock in place and not stop. Never stop.
My thoughts were different then. I was anticipating finally getting to have sex. That thing that has been forbidden my entire life. That thing I’ve been warned against every day. That I’ve been told to protect myself from. From boys. From men. Once that memory started, the rest came careening in between us.
An invisible intruder.
Back stiff with reproach, I shimmied off the side of the bed and bolted to the bathroom. Leaving him a muted member of the strange room where we’re spending our honeymoon. My feet carried me away without turning to offer an explanation or comfort or warning.
Leaning forward with hands clutching the basin, I allow myself a deep breath. Preferring the tightness of my hands on the white porcelain sink. I avoid seeing fear in the mirror.
In one motion, with fabricated confidence, I open the door. The wood and beige toned room is bathed in soft light, holding the darkness of the Knysna night at bay. He is where I thought he’d be. Right there. Bronze skin fills the breath of my view, radiating warmth, drawing me in. My temperature rises at the intimacy of being in my peach knee length negligée and seeing him in his black shorts. I’m torn. My hands want to explore each freckle on his skin. My brain wrestles with wanting more, translating to being a whore.
To his credit, he is a sturdy oak in my uncertainty. His hands hang relaxed at his sides. Patience permeates his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I croak.
His dark brown curls shake with the rejection of my statement. “What are you sorry for?”
I swallow. “Running away.”
He reaches forward to link our fingers loosely. “Can we sit and talk? I can’t unsee the toilet behind you.”
I chuckle, taking the reprieve and glance behind me. I have to agree, it’s kinda weird. He leads us to the bed and we sit, side by side, hands linked. He holds me there. Steady. In the way I’ve come to know him to be.
“What’s going on in that head of yours.” His thumb makes an encouraging pattern on mine.
I glance over at his beautiful face. “I’m new to this. I’m, I’m nervous.”
A shy smile appears on his lips. “Me too.”
Bewildered, I enquire, “You are?”
He nods.
“But, but why? You’re a guy.”
Cheeks reddening he challenges. “So?”
Boys aren’t lectured on the dangers of attraction like girls. Flummoxed, I ask, “What do you have to be nervous about?”
I watch his Adams apple bop as he swallows. “Many things.”
His things can’t be the same as my things. Can they? “Is your mouth also suddenly dry?” I jump up. “Let me get some water.
“Bahiyah, wait.” His hand in mine is an anchor, drawing me back. Probably sensing my instinct to run back to the bathroom, he slides an arm under my knee and lifts me across his lap.
I surrender reluctantly. He waits. Unable to deny his calming presence, I brace my head on his shoulder. Sinking into his comfort.
His arms wrap support around my waist and the end of his cold nose nudges my ear. His breath rasps. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I press my lips together. The need to blurt it out is overwhelming. So is the fear. What will he say? What will he think of me? He’s going to think I’m ridiculous and want a different wife. My own judgement is visceral. A live uncovered electric wire between us.
“Bahiyah please.” He lifts my chin with his finger. His eyes worried.
I hide by circling my arm around his shoulder and leaning my forehead against his. “Will you tell me why you’re nervous first?” I’m asking for a stay of execution. To borrow some of his bravery.
His breath moves in and out of his body sharply. His arms around my middle feel steady and sure. His voice not so much.
“I’m nervous.” His chest moves against me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He admits softly, hiding against the skin of my throat. He plants a kiss there. It feels apologetic. My eyes drift closed in acceptance.
I urge. “What else?”
My throat receives another soft kiss. This one is hesitant. He’s drawing courage from my skin and I’m drawing courage from his confession.
“I’m scared of doing this wrong. I’m scared you’re not going to like it. That I’ll ruin sex for you forever.”
My hand tightens on his neck. I pull away enough to see if he means it. His uncertain eyes meet mine.
I whisper, “Me too.” My forehead goes back to touching his. Admitting my fears is better if I don’t see him hear them.
“I’m scared of it hurting. I’m scared that I’m being, you know, ‘uitgelaat’.”
His arms tightening around my waist reassures me to go on.
I give in to the fear and blurt it all out. “I’ve been told my whole life, since I got my gheid the first time, I’ve been told, ‘keep your legs closed’. That sex is haraam. We could never bring up sex related questions at home. Any mention of it meant we’d hear a lecture and the same phrase repeated. Sex is haraam. Sex is haraam.” I stop and swallow. This part is hard to say out loud. “Now I’m here with you.” I swallow some more. Why is my mouth so dry? “And I want to. I really want to. But it feels like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m sinning.” I pause to catch my breath. Or my thoughts because they’re spiralling. A tornado pulling all desire along with it and flinging it far away.
“Those voices became really loud when I straddled your lap. It was shouting that I mustn’t let you touch me like that. That I shouldn’t be sitting on you. And now,” I sigh heavily, “Even though I like being here, this close, I feel like I should be covering up. That you shouldn’t see me so kaal. It’s like my brain is fighting my body.” I pause. “And I don’t know if I can do this.”
The hand on my waist travels to my auburn bob and rests on the nape of my neck. His thumb caresses my jaw, back and forth.
He waits until I look at him. “I have similar voices in my head.”
Sceptical I ask, “You do?”
He nods. “My parents would say don’t get anyone pregnant. Sex is haraam. Don’t be alone with girls.” He chuckles ironically. “I was saying this is halaal in my head while we were kissing.”
I snort, taking his hand from my neck and holding it in mine. “Maybe we should say it together.”
He doesn’t even pause and says, “Okay.”
I giggle. “Seriously?”
“Why not. It sounds like we both need our brains to be convinced we can kiss each other. That I can touch you. That I can…” His voice trails off. His hand tightens around mine. His breath staggers as if he’s lost his balance. He swallows. Clears his throat. Declares. “We are in charge of how this goes right?’
I nod, leaning into his confident tone.
“We decide. No one else.”
Leaning forward, with a small high voice, I expose what I held back, “But what if I never want to have sex? Or I, I can’t.”
His eyes are introspective. I count four breaths before he speaks.
His question fills the room. “Are you attracted to me?”
I nod.
Running a hand up my arm, inviting shivers up my spine, he carefully prods. “Do you like when I touch you?”
I nod.
He leans in and puts his lips against mine, tongue soft and flat, reaching out to flit against my bottom lip.
In a low voice, he enquires, “Do you like when I kiss you?”
I nod. His gruff voice, his gentle touch, it awakens rushing blood and prickling skin.
He kisses my cheek. “Then I think we’ll be okay.”
Wrapping both arms around his neck, I hold on, allowing him to lead me.
“Okay.” I whisper, “I believe you.”
He remains the anchor to my drifting thoughts until my panicked heart subsides and hums with a low awareness, brought on by being this close to him. By knowing he listens. By not being mocked when admitting my fears.
Cautiously I ask, “Can we climb in the bed and, and cuddle?”
He stands with me wrapped in his arms and walks to the side of the bed where he falls backwards. We giggle as we bounce on the King sized bed. Scrambling, we race to see who gets under the blankets first. I win. Facing the wall, lying on my side, I wait for him to crawl in behind me. He said he loves being the big spoon. His arm curls around my waist and his body curls tight against me. I place my hands on his forearm, rubbing my fingers against the course hairs there.
“Is it weird to have an erection every time you’re aroused?”
He throws his head back with a bellow before answering. “I suppose I’m used to it?” Laughter lurks in his voice.
My fingers start gently pulling at the hair on his arm. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. It would be hard to hide.”
His breathing is almost steady. “You learn some tricks.”
“Is that why you’d hug me from the side when you went home sometimes?”
He snuggles closer. “Uh huh.”
“You’re aroused now.”
A nervous tinged “Mhmm” escapes his lips as confirmation.
Little fingers of restlessness spread under my skin. Nerves prevail. But bravery is making a surprise appearance.
I allow my hand to move from his forearm to his elbow to his hip and down the side of his thigh. He stills behind me. I repeat the action. He groans into my hair. Heart ringing in my ears, I slip the tips of my fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts.
“Wife?” He is curious. Hopeful.
“I’m still nervous and scared as hell.” Breathless, I admit. “But I want to try.”
He sinks his face into my hair and pushes his hips into me. My breath catches with the fire that motion brings. His hand explores slowly to my hip, stoking more flames.
Breathing fast behind me, he whispers in my ear, “Do you want to play?”
Lifting my hand behind me, into his hair, I whisper back, “Is that what we’re calling it.”
His hand tightens on my waist. He rocks into me. Breath heavy, mouths open and scared, we fill the air with our paradox. Wanting to touch and be touched. Scared to give ourselves permission to do so.
“Maybe if we call it play, it will tell our brains it’s fun. Allowed. A sadaqah.”
I lick my lips. “Mhmm. I remember that from marriage classes.”
He turns my mouth to his. His lips move over mine in slow measure, building up pressure in small increments. His tongue reaches out to tease my lips. I reach out to lick his. His moan vibrates against me. I shift so that I can deepen the angle, sweeping my tongue against his. Lightly at first and then deeper, pushing closer to have more. More. More.
Pulling away to face him, I’m putty and sparks and light and panting. “I thoroughly enjoy kissing you. That’s a sadaqah right?”
Breathless, he says, “Giving sadaqah is good.” He leans in to place his lips softly against mine.
His eyes look drugged. Do mine look the same? Being with him, like this, is intoxicating.
In this moment, I’m high on my own audacity. “Can I have some more please?”
He smiles teasingly. “Yes.” Pushing me back, his chest partially covers mine. Keeping his hands to himself, he kisses me in long explorations of tempos. Teasing out moans and little sighs I’ve never made before.
The haraam police, nerves and uncertainty have not disappeared. But I trust Laeeq. I want this. With him. He’s sucking at my neck. I wonder what his neck tastes like? Or his collar bone? Would he like it if I kissed his Adams apple? What does his penis look like? What if it’s too big. Or too small? Cosmo said it’s the same length from the tip of his middle finger to the end of his wrist. I wonder…
Laeeq’s chuckle vibrates against me. He lifts onto his hands to stare down at me.
Hands on his shoulders, I ask “What?”
“Just do it. Whatever your thinking. You have that face you get when you’re contemplating what to do next.”
I blink at him a few times while he stares back. His elbows are locked, holding him there.
I reach up and lick his neck. He swallows hard, but doesn’t say anything. He tastes slightly salty, but mostly like him. I don’t know how I know that, but it feels true.
Gruffly, he says, “What else?”
Watching him closely, I request, “Can I touch your chest?”
He nods.
Open palms against his pecs, I move them side to side, liking the way his skin feels. Biting my lip, I trace my fingers from one freckle to the next, down to his waist, to his navel and back up. His breath is short and sharp. He observes my face with parted lips.
Mischievously, I ask, “Are you more aroused now?”
Decidedly still, his jaw ticks. Eyes darkening, he dares me to check. Biting my lip, watching him, I move my shaking hand to the front of his shorts. His eyes close on a sharp breath. When they open, he assures me he likes it. He allows me a few minutes to fulfil my curiosity before he takes my wrist and pulls it away from his body.
In a strained voice he asks, “Is it my turn now?”
I’m quaking. A scorched mess. Teetering between want and guilt. But I nod. We’re both unsure of my reaction to his exploration. The ringing in my ears joins that stupid voice rebuking me. His hand moves to my chest and every muscle in me contracts. I consciously force myself to relax.
I pause his hands for a second to ask an important question. “We’re just playing. No sex?”
“Is that what you need?”
I nod.
“Okay.” His mouth descends on my neck and his hand moves onto my thigh, hesitant, fingers under my peach negligee. “Is this okay?”
Heart in my throat, I freeze. He moves said hand to my waist and leans down to lick past my lips. He traces a map of permission, voice confirming at every stop. Every second my body reacts by stiffening; I remind her that he’s playing. That I like it. That it’s safe. That it’s Laeeq. That I trust him. That he’ll stop if I ask him to. That we can make our own pace. That he’s my husband and this is our sadaqa. And Sadaqa is good.