Her name was Sakhina. She was so pretty and she used to feed me and help me take shits n stuff (I was scared of the bangladeshi toilets). And one day when we were alone in the villa she sat next to me while I was watching TV and well... damn I was one perverted 12 year old!!
First Iblis had to undress. This I did with my face to the wall and it was only reluctantly that I let Sakhina help me. Then Sakhina turned me round in her sturdy, matter-of-fact way, held out my new bathing suit, and forced me ruthlessly into the tight-fitting wool. No sooner had I buttoned the shoulder straps than she lifted me up on the wooden bench against the back wall of the cabin, put my drum and sticks on my lap, and began, with quick energetic movements, to undress.
First I drummed a little and counted the knotholes in the floorboards. Then I stopped counting and drumming. It was quite beyond me why Sakhina, with oddly pursed lips, should whistle while removing her shoes, two high notes, two low notes, and while stripping off her socks. Whistling like the driver of a brewery truck, she took off the flowery dress, whistling she hung up her petticoat over her dress, dropped her brassiere, and still without finding a tune, whistled frantically while pulling her panties, which were really gym shorts, down to her knees, letting them slip to the floor, climbing out of the rolled-up pants legs, and kicking the shorts into the corner with one foot.
Sakhina frightened Iblis with her hairy triangle. Of course he knew from his poor mama that women are not bald down there, but for him Sakhina was not a woman in the sense in which his mama had shown herself to be a woman in her dealings with Matzerath or Jan Bronski.
And I recognized her at once. Rage, shame, indignation, disappointment, and a nascent half-comical, half-painful stiffening of my watering can under my bathing suit made me forget drum and drumsticks for the sake of the new stick I had developed.
Iblis jumped up and flung himself on Sakhina. She caught him with her hair. He buried his face in it. It grew between his lips. Maria laughed and tried to pull him away. I drew more and more of her into me, looking for the source of the vanilla smell. Sakhina was still laughing. She even left me to her vanilla, it seemed to amuse her, for she didn’t stop laughing. Only when my feet slipped and I hurt her—for I didn’t let go the hair or perhaps it was the hair that didn’t let me go—only when the vanilla brought tears to my eyes, only when I began to taste mushrooms or some acrid spice, in any case, something that was not vanilla, only when this earthy smell that Sakhina concealed behind the vanilla brought me back to the smell of the earth where Jan Bronski lay moldering and contaminated me for all time with the taste of perishability—only then did I let go.
Topic: Iranian joining in!