Richard Buskin and Pari Esfandiari reported about sex in Iran in Playboy, May 2007.  The article discusses the Zahra Ebrahimi sex tape, sex parties in the suburbs and the increasing demand for prostitution as men marry later and the average age of the population decreases.  The sex parties are organized, covert and anonymous and an interesting insight into the human desire to experiment sexually, no matter what the cultural or religious binds imposed upon them.

http://www.richardbuskin.com/playboy.html

Short-term or casual relationships appealed to me long before I became a paid girlfriend. One of my first jobs was in a corporate office. I was very young, ridiculously impressionable and enjoying new-found independence. A partial view through several computer screens of a delicious Italian guy named Johnny provided a point of interest and welcome respite from reports and filing systems. Another girl in the office joined me in drooling over his beautiful olive skin and we raced each other to the kitchen every time he went for coffee. My friend was more outgoing than me and seemed to attract male attention without even trying, so I thought if Johnny was going to notice someone, it would be her.

I was speechless when he approached me at a bar one night after work, having built him up to God-like status in my mind. Johnny and I ended up leaving the club together and going back to the office, where he excused himself to make a phone call as I sat and waited. It happened that he was talking to a woman in France who would soon be moving in with him. They had met and fallen in love while she was traveling for several months and she had returned to the Continent to arrange a visa. I appreciated that he was upfront about his situation and agreed that we should take advantage of the three months until le femme’s return.

It turned out to be a very intoxicating summer, in various ways. As with most Italians I’ve since experienced, Johnny was a wonderful lover. I actually looked forward to going to work but was probably a little distracted from my duties. I liked to call on the internal phone and watch him spin slowly in my direction on his swivel chair. We’d have a conversation about the color of my underwear that day or what position we might fuck in after work.

I had the feeling it was the Goodbye Lunch when he asked me to meet him one day, in a less-than-playful tone. I was a little sad but knew it was going to happen, so I said goodbye and thanked him for a great time. I think he was surprised that I was ok with it. In my mind I’d had a a lot of fun with a nice person and our work colleagues and the French girlfriend were none the wiser. As it happened things didn’t work out with her anyway and I received a phone call several months later, asking if I wanted to start up where we’d left off. I’d met someone else by then but I don’t think a real relationship would have worked between us anyway. I still think of him with the greatest of affection.

All I could think about during the US Open Men’s Finals was what Roger Federer would be doing to Mirka, his girlfriend, later on after the game. Various scenarios ran through my mind, except that she wasn’t in them and I was. Then I received a text from a friend and fellow tennis fan–“I want to have sex with Roger Federer”. Was every woman in New York thinking about fucking RF today? And what is it about him that drives us so crazy? He’s smokin’ hot, sure, but it’s something more than that. My Roger-meter definitely goes off the charts when he gets into his zone and starts wiping the court with the opponent. Maybe it’s about power. I was watching the semi finals with Katie “I want to have sex with RF” last week when he played Novak Djokovic. We were literally falling off our chairs like schoolgirls, especially when they would use that camera angle from behind the player. It could also have something to do with the fact that he’s a younger man. Only one year younger in my case but psychologically that changes things. I’ve rarely been out with men younger than me but recently started to think about it being a possibility. I found myself talking to a 22 year old musician at a party a few weeks ago and eventually realized he was hitting on me. I started to feel a little guilty, as though I was somehow taking advantage of this sweet, innocent, young thing. At the same time the thought of taking advantage seemed very appealing. I’m still thinking about it, I know where he works…
There would be no taking advantage of RF, on the other hand. I imagine he would be more like he is on the court. Strong, in control, relentless. Passionate behind the cool-guy persona…. sigh.

Morocco is every everything you’d expect–busy, overwhelming, intoxicating, exotic. It’s more secular than most Islamic countires bit still traditionally and predominantly Muslim. I visited during Ramadan. Bells at the town mosque rang before sunrise, signaling the Call to Prayer followed by the breakfast meal. Even in Marrakesh, the whole town is awoken by the chiming that goes on for perhaps fifteen minutes. People all over the city can be seen looking sleepy by early afternoon, when blood sugar levels have reached a critical low point.  I felt quite guilty about eating lunch while others suffered for a higher cause but not guilty enough to avoid eating altogether. Perhaps I should have thought better about my timing but I decided one day, after a midday meal at my hotel, to find a local hammam for an afternoon of relaxation.

My understanding of French was enough to choose a massage and some sort of spa treatment involving steam. No sooner had I booked an appointment than the woman at the counter began yelling in Arabic in the direction of the ceiling. A few minutes later, down a staircase behind me, descended a beautiful, young woman, approximately five months pregnant.  She had clearly been asleep upstairs and did not appear happy to have been summoned. Few situations make me nervous but the idea of being naked in a room full of steam with this pregnant, sleep deprived and hungry woman had me contemplating just running for the door. Before I had the chance I was directed to another door which lead to a hallway and ultimately to the hammam.

Grumpy Pregnant Woman thrust a finger in the direction of a table in a small space off of the large steam room and I guessed that was the cue to undress and lie down. Despite her apparent lack of enthusiasm, I was struck by how feminine this woman was. Pregnancy aside, she was just oozing womanliness, especially in the way she touched. Although I wasn’t really thinking in sexual terms, it gave me an idea of what it is that attracts hetrosexual men to women. I’ve noticed it before at the Indian threading salon in my neighborhood and while getting a lap-dance from a Brazilian stripper with huge breasts. I’ve rarely felt it around other caucasian women, I’m not sure why.

Once the massage was done, the finger again showed me the door and indicated that I should position myself in the middle of the steam room. I stood naked in the hot, tiled cavern as the masseuse filled a vessel with water and some sort of soapy liquid. While she could have chosen to use me as an outlet for her bad mood during the massage, she had remained gentle and resigned. The scrub was different. She approached me with the giant wooden bowl of water, lifted it above my head and turned it over. I was barely getting over the shock of how cold it was when she began rubbing my head and body with a course sponge. She scrubbed furiously for a few minutes before throwing another bucket of water at me. Then she disappeared. I was clean, of that I was sure. Dazed, naked and soaking wet in the large, tiled room, I decided to lie down and let the steam relax me for while. By the time I made my way back to the reception, my grumpy masseuse was asleep again upstairs.