Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

All save one.

A beautiful woman on horseback raced up behind her knight, screaming when she saw the horse and rider go down in a splay of sand, his saddle emptied. Who was she? Most likely, a consort. Spaniards took their women on campaigns, as did the French; even the sultan bade women from his harem ride with him. But this woman was different. She showed courage, focus and commitment. In the middle of the flaying, hacking and stabbing, she tended to her knight’s wound, then she grabbed his sword and on and on she fought beside her lover like a creature possessed, remembering the eve before battle, how her body had a will of its own when she removed her chemise in his tent and let it drop to the ground, both excited and at the same time eager to lie with her lord, how she cried out when he pressed into her soft flesh. I’ll never leave you, she swore, even when he insisted she mount his horse and save herself. She refused and together they escaped through the Roman ruins before taking refuge together in a vault left open by grave robbers when—

Off in the distance a great cloud rose over the horizon, dark and tumultuous, no warning, only the sticky humidity and whooshing sound of the tempest winds. No longer did the sun spark like lightning from the Crusaders’ armor and weapons. The clash of steel on steel dimmed as the sand spun and vibrated over them with whirling energy, burying them in a dark, lonely grave.

I envisioned the lovers embracing, their nude flesh touching, warming, comforting. At the same time, I wrestled with my need to tell the truth without my inhibitions threatening to hold me back. Whether I was uncovering the faded mosaic of a man and woman fornicating on a wall in Pompeii or polishing an ancient dildo with long, slow strokes, I believed it was my job to reconstruct history from the surviving bits and pieces of women’s daily lives and loves.

Including sex.

I nurtured my need each time I unearthed an artifact, like the small terra-cotta figurine with nude pointy breasts I found in a tomb, or held in my hand the bones of a slave girl I unearthed in a crypt in Jordan, her skeleton wearing golden wrist and ankle bracelets. Were her wrists fettered together with gold bracelets when she dropped to her knees and lifted her buttocks to give her master access to her? Did she cry out when he probed her, exploring her intimately with an intensity she knew would culminate in thrusting his cock into her? I visualized her grinding her hips, breathing in the cloying sweet scent of the harem, meeting him stroke for stroke, as he took her from behind, crying out as he drilled deeper and deeper into her.

Imagining the reality of these pleasures haunting my lubricious dreams helped me build on my dark desires. I became impassioned with the need to explore this sexual side of myself, wondering how I’d react when the man I desired tied my wrists together, then inserted his fingers into me, sliding them deep, deep inside me until he captured my hard bud, brushing it back and forth with loving caresses, my muscles instinctively tightening around his fingers, giving us both pleasure.

I attempted to explore that side of my personality with the man in my life before I left for Syria, but he balked. He didn’t have sufficient imagination to deduce the tempting possibilities a piece of rope could have on a girl; he was a math professor with a head full of equations that included me in one position. Under him.

He broke off our relationship, insisting he didn’t want to worry about me traveling in a danger zone. I tried to tell him the only danger I faced was crossing the winding streets in Damascus with the horn-happy drivers yelling and screaming at anyone in their way. He couldn’t accept that and wished me happy digging. He promised to write and he did for a while, but I never heard from him after I logged on to the Internet in a dorm in Harna and checked my e-mail. That was more than two years ago. I wanted to blame it on the Syrian government firewalls screwing up my e-mail, but I couldn’t. I had to face the inevitable. Unless I could find a man who shared my passion for wild, raw, stimulating sex, I’d end up alone. That disturbed me. I like getting down on my knees, and I don’t just mean digging in the dirt. Months of bouncing up and down on the hard seat of a four-wheel-drive Jeep for stimulation wasn’t the most satisfying way to have an orgasm. I didn’t have much choice, considering not much else revved up my libido since I embarked on my scholarly quest. Most penises I held in my hand were shriveled up, mummified genitals, like the penis of King Tut, the famous Boy King.

All that changed when I met Sharif.

Strip down. Rub henna on your hands and feet. Tie the gold ribbon around your waist.

Me? I proclaim, my voice catching in my throat, arching my eyebrows, playing my part so well I surprise myself. I’m a scientist, not a slave girl.

You want me to take you. I see it in your eyes.