“Slave Fire” continued….

Oh! This is toooo good to bury in the comments. From Phil in Wales, who raises some very interesting things here.

Lady Nyo, but Teela when she dances…

Why the negative statement, I paraphrase; ‘a prisoner of one’s sexuality’?

(was it That negative?  I think of the word ‘prisoner’ and the quote should have been ‘helpless prisoner’ to express what I was feeling when I wrote this last night….the word prisoner is more to affect a feeling of tightly bound up, or without choice…which I think we are about our basic sexuality….)

Surely the sensual pleasures of one’s sexuality is liberating?

(Yes, Phil…and I spent a long time last year trying to argue that bellydancing was only a gender thing for women, that it was birth movements, it was not a dance of seduction…(hah!) and this to a Dom who had his own ideas about the issue.  I, of course, lost the argument and should have.  I was being stupid on purpose.)

It is only the late Victorian mores as applied to the Western Civilisations that regards sex as ‘something just a little dirty, to be practiced strictly in private and between only those santioned by the mumblings of a representative of some established state recognised religion.’

Sex and sexuality is glorious, it is the driving force behind most of our interactions, whether we like to admit it or not.

Jane describes the upwellings of sensual and deeply sexual feelings she experiences from the dance that she practices. The movements of her hips and breasts and the deliberate seductive flexing of muscles both external and internal are all redolent of the movements of the sex act itself.

(you got that right….hmmmmm)
It is no coincidence that when a woman is aroused her hips move, tummy undulates and her pelvis flexes; just as Jane’s will as she dances. The belly dance is the dance of Salome, the movements less about giving birth and far more to do with that of mating and conception. So just as arousal causes the movement, the movement will impact on the dancer in a similar way. I would say most especially during practice and those times of meditation that come to us when excercising. The belly dance is a turn on for the dancer as well as the audience. Quelle surprise! (sp.)

The only Natural Order that has any validity here is simply that the act of receiving the phallus into one’s body is arguably more passive and hence submissive, (oh Phil…I don’t know about THAT) than the act of penetration itself, which is possibly more active and therefore dominant. This analogy breaks down of course, when the female is taking the active role in straddling her partner and controlling the activities. However, I would still argue that it is the fundamental issue behind the ’emotions’ men and women feel and then ‘interpret’ as dominance and submission.

The basic, very basic sensual ecstasy in spreading one’s thighs wide, feeling the tendons in the tops of the leg stretch and one’s sex open to one’s mate is the ultimate in submission. I am not presupposing the sexual position in this, as I believe most coital positions can be referenced in this view. The opposite feeling, that of the male who has the urge to push and penetrate as his goal, is clearly that of control and dominance. I am of course taking this back down to the very simplest issue but I believe it to be valid.

(I think about now I need a cold shower..thanks, Phil.)

The psychological manifestations that we see played out in the very broad spectrum of human behaviour and the relatively small band of activity that we reference as D/s or BDSM have at their core, these basic issues of femal acceptance and male imposition during the sex act.

Now before there are howls of challenge discussing the rich variety and wide variation of sexual orientation and practice, in defence I am boiling what is an endlessly fascinating and complex topic down to the most basic that I can.

The female is inherrantly submissive in that she has to passively accept into her body the penetrating male who dominates the act by usually being the active partner.

Beyond that, all else is psychology and the unlimited capacity of the human mind to spin webs of fantasy, philosophy and interaction.

In the word of the song Jane, ‘My hips don’t lie!’  More power to yours and your dancing friends who bring joy and erotic pleasure to every man who watches you. So what if you get a little turned on as well?

(yep…you have convinced me that I am very ‘normal’.  LOL!)

Happy New Year

My regards

P.

And my regards to you as well, Phil.

Lady Nyo…but in this case…Teela

“Devil’s Revenge”…used to be “Another Story”

Two years ago this month I started a novel. I was a new writer and didn’t know squat about writing….still struggle with it, but I have learned much in those two years.

I also ‘fell’ into an interest that I had no idea existed. Well, a couple of them actually. What I was told later was BDSM, and also the mythology of Demons and Devils.

This book wrote itself…not an especially ‘good’ thing, but I realized that after a long time, I was suddenly getting in touch with some latent sexual issues, and even the issue of sex itself. There was a long dead period for me.

I have decided to rewrite this book, as it has caught my interest again, and I can do better now. In this book , I explored the issues of ass-rape, time warps, bondage, all these sexual things I didn’t know had names or were part of someone’s life. Apparently, many people.

Betsy is a 21st. century writer, who is trapped in a time warp, with a Devil who insists on living (for now) in the early 19th century. Garrett Cortelyou is actually a very old devil, and has his hooves in early Celtic times, in Wales. He is a produce of a powerful union between a mortal woman and a seriously potent Demon, but who his parentage was, is not known. However, he has the ‘respect’ and patronage of Abigor, close to the throne in Hell. Betsy has been raped by Obadiah (another devil) in previous chapters and she is in the middle of a tug of war between Garrett and Obadiah. Each devil strikes at the other through Betsy.

Lady Nyo

ANOTHER STORY, Part 14

Oh! I am writing at a furious pace! I am trying to finish this book. Actually, I am trying to kill off a character, Obadiah, but today, I could kill them all, especially Garrett Cortelyou.. Now I’m told what has just happened has nothing to do with me. But! Had I not delayed, procrastinated, and plain farted around, perhaps things would be different.

It is a pretty morning and I am sitting at the little table before a bright fire. It is winter, an endless winter, and I have been told to stay in this house. Perhaps I am a prisoner of this room. Fearful enough, I stay indoors. I can see the distant fields from my window and I see a hawk fly high up in the sky. I have watched this bird for a while now. It’s questionable that this hawk is only a bird of prey. Garrett, the resident Demon, thinks it might be another, the Demon Arachula, an evil spirit of the air. It watches the lay of the land, and hunts its prey in the woods by the house.

I am writing fast, with frequent pauses to read what I scribble. I hear a very faint sound of bells, a tinkling of brass somewhere in the distance. It could be outside, like the clinking together of milk cans, or the sound of sleigh bells, but there is no snow on the ground. It grows closer, and suddenly, the Demon appears in the room. He is grinning like a Cheshire cat, and has something behind his back.

“Goedemorgen to you”, he says grinning broadly. He speaks excellent Dutch. He sits down in his usual chair and I hear the sound of something clinking together. He pulls up his hand, and there are my zils.

“How did you get my zils? My Turkish zils?” He’s wearing my finger cymbals on four fingers of one hand. Suddenly I know where he’s been!

“You Bastard! Still up to your old tricks! What else have you stolen from my bedside?” I can’t believe the nerve of this demon!

“You know demons are thieves. It’s a failing among us. We are like magpies and crows. Can’t resist the shine.” He sounds my zils with a clap of his hand, and holds them out of my reach.

He tells me he visits in the night and apparently last night he was there. He claims he is bored and appears at my bedside, where he watches me snore. I think he is lonely. I have already told him my husband keeps a shotgun in the corner, but he doesn’t care.

“I have found something else”, he says, pulling out my coin scarf from his sleeve.

“Insufferable monster!” I can’t believe this, but then, what should I expect? .

“I like your underclothes, too, but only the silk ones. I will bring some for you here, though I think you will freeze. I like the sweet smell of woman in them.” He grins at me, detestable devil!.

So he goes through my drawers and clothes…

“Oh, I do much more, sweetheart. Helps me know who I’m consorting with.”

“Devil! Is their any decency left in your nature?”

He laughs, his voice sounding like a bass fiddle tuned low. “Ah, darling! The short answer is — “no”. And before you go at me for my nature, how come this is the first time I find you dance in a harem. Makes a devil wonder what he has bought.”

I sit there and think. Since he reads my mind when he wants, I have learned to parse my thoughts when near him. At times it works but he has a way of getting what he wants for he’s tricky…

“Oh you ignorant devil! What would you know about such things? They are two worlds apart. Nothing alike.”

“Well, dance for me, and let me judge.”

Hah! That is one thing that I would not do. I’m not married to him, it’s part of a code, but I won’t tell him ‘the rules’.

“Tell me what? Think of me as a Pasha, and let me tie this scarf around your pretty hips.”

I sit there wondering how I am going to avoid dancing for him. He gets what he pleases, but I am learning ways around his whims. Perhaps I can interest him the in the history of this dance and he—

“No, you can come here now and dance. I know more than you think.”

He usually achieves what he wants. Through persuasion or magic, he gets what he’s after.

In a twinkling of an eye, I was parked between his legs, the coin scarf around my hips. He pulled my skirt low and patiently placed my zils on my fingers like I was a child.

“How can I dance? I need music for that.” He snapped his fingers, and faintly I heard the sound of a slow piece of music. I recognized the song, it was Turkish. Hynotic with its Karsilama scales, I hear it and my body couldn’t stay still. I sigh, he has played me again.

“Then put your hands around me and you can feel the movements of my hips.” Most men would like that…

Dancing in such a constricted space was very much like the Eygptian style. Such dancers made very little rotations with hips and torso. In fact, the torso remains above the pelvis, barely moving. The arms are more pronounced, but the shimmies were generally the same. Just more restricted. The Turkish style, the one that I studied and loved the most, was danced with broader and more joyous movements. The torso leans back and tilts the pelvis forward. Turkish dancing is based on the Romany, or gypsy styles, and since I am half Hungarian, this style suits my blood. The music is developed from the Ottoman rakkas, similar to the raggis of India. The drumming feels like the beat of blood coursing through my veins.

The music swells with a beat that follows a rhythm of 9/8, and other pieces of the body come into motion. Where he is holding me, I can only move slightly, with hips in figure eights and a kick of the hip on the upbeat. I can do the ‘snake arms’ movement, which is lovely viewed from the back, as it is led by the elbows upward and a flip of the hand at the apex of the movement above the head.

Ah! The music swells, and I have to step out of his arms. I have just learned to use the zils, and it gives such structure to the arms. It was hard at first to isolate the different parts of the torso, all in movement at different parts of the beats, and then to gracefully, with beautiful, lyrical movements, try to move the arms as a frame for the body. The zils helped because they extended the flow of the beat.

I am dancing to myself, not a dance of seduction for he who watches me silently, carried as I am by the music. I am seducing myself, making love only to me. I make the birth movements of the downward hip fling, with the pelvis flung to the sky, and I make the ‘habibi’ movement, which is a rotation of the torso forward and around, with the pelvis straight. It is a movement to be made on the head of a cock by a woman deeply aroused. I am fully possessed, my eyes closed, my blood beats a counterbeat to the rakka. He has somehow picked the music used by the Turkish badladi, the form I love best. I can drop to my feet, not on my toes now, and can use my heels in another counter rhythm. Ah, primal, sensual movements that bring forth the evening wind in the desert, the sounds of hunting hawks above, hooded hawks on dark arms below, the trickle of precious water, and the smell of woodsmoke!

Somehow I make my way back to him, drawn by the pulse of the dance, the piercing, haunting sound of the desert flute. Finding myself between his legs I place my hands on his chest, palms gently on his warm skin like a blessing of love.

The music stops and I am glossy with sweat. My hair is in tangles over my breasts, my breath drawn in pants. He is silent, more silent than I have ever known him to be, and stone-still. Dazed, he pulls me to him, breaking he spell of the music. He breathes my scent deeply and picks me up in his arms. He moves to the window with me as his prize.

I am exhausted and limp in his arms and we look out over the landscape. He is smiling at something and there is an expression I have not seen before. He is looking at the hawk, the hawk who hovers over the field and his face is defiant!. Ah! He is challenging the shade of Obadiah out there in the trees. He is showing what he now possesses. Obadiah will have to kill him to take me.

Nothing can match the intensity of his expression. Here in its fierceness is the stare of the lion. He will fight for what is now his and he will kill with an appetite honed through the ages. All the gloss of the 21th century drops from my mind as I see his rapture in his challenge. Men or Demons, like wolves, have a heart beat that stretches back to the hunt. They glory in its primitive urges. They glory in the gore they will spill.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2006, 2008

A Plug!!!!! This morning I have received

a number of emails, queries about belly dancing…and from a man, too!

Not that I would want to see this man belly dancing, but he is all about ‘all things female’…so he’s allowed.

But not in the studio~! That is like a harem in there…..and you would have to leave your testicles outside in a bucket….

The Plug: I bought a while ago, a dvd called “Luscious” The Belly Dance Workout (for beginners)….www.worlddancenewyork.com…probably from Amazon.com…

This is an amazing dvd. Although stating it’s for beginners, it is one of the very BEST dvd’s on bellydance I have ever seen. One of the things it does is NOT portray isolations ‘in’ isolation. It’s part of a continuous movement of dance…where it is incorporated in the general muscle memory.

I LOVE this disc. So why am I not watching it all the time??? It is damn hard. It moves fast, but not so fast you can’t concentrate on pieces….that is what the stop and reverse buttons are for.

However, as much as I bitch that it’s hard, it’s hands down one of the most beautiful displays of sensual bellydancing I have ever seen….in continuous performance….and broken down…it’s easy enough.

I would advise anyone..male or female….to go to their website and see the promo. It is fantastic, not the least the dancers…gorgeous women all.

This is classical bellydancing…and I am gnashing my tooths that I am going into Tribal Fusion right now.

Ahhhh…who knows….but this disc is a lovely learning tool and applicable to all levels of dancers….

Teela….

Rerun of a funny blog entry from August 10, well, it makes me laugh, and may get me off my butt and rehearse.

Serious entry this am….not now! I’m dressing

to go dance…first time really in 5 months…and I am thinking what a chore in this heat.

Actually, belly dancing is more about ‘undressing’ but still what a chore in this heat.

After the bath, there is the usual shaving parts that might be crucial. There is hot rollers, hair spray, all the necessary toiletries. There are panties and a skirt, positioned just so beneath the belly button, curved to the hips and don’t show too much ass. There is the bra, is the performance monster shifting or are your boobs??? Do you have the sense to remember that the Turkish women in the countryside who make your costumes are sadists and leave pins in the bottom of your bra, or was that the trick of your alterer?

This week you got you hair cut for the first time in years…except little, little trims and the women who did the job were Nazis. They cut 6 inches off and now you have little ’swing’. They waxed your eyebrows and you feel like a chemo girl. You now have to use more crap to contour eyebrows and the heat of the sun has melted your pencils. You find the elastic of your undies is questionable, and if they fall, you got more trouble. Your nails have been removed because they became a pain in the ass (literally) and you couldn’t pick your nose, but now you have nuthin’. Nice. You bend down to shake your boobs evenly into the cups and the one clasp in back breaks. You have to cannibalize another bra for the clasp. You bend down to shake your boobs evenly in the cups and they fall out this time. Not a good sign.

You get your weird hair out of curlers and tease, and it spikes off into uneven weird hairdo. You look closely and there is a pimple on your nose. You are too old for pimples. Nature doesn’t care.

You look for your dance heels and you find one. And only one. So you go for another pair, and you remember that they are really uncomfortable after an hour…or before.

You think, Glitter or not? You find green and red glitter, not the pearl/gold or silver glitter…and if you use you will look like a Xmas tree. Not the right season.

Jewelry. Lots of choices, but with layered hair, earrings need to be proportioned. Silver bangles need to be polished, and there goes the hands.

And about the hands….you better wear zils or you will be noticed. Or your stubby nails will be noticed and noted. Down.

You take a deep breath and notice that your stomach isn’t where it was. 5 months of computer and sloth and it wouldn’t be.

When you finally are dressed, your makeup is sliding because ….see the first paragraph.

Tonight is special. I haven’t danced in 5 months, and I have seriously missed it. I am getting misty eyed thinking of my Berber drummers and waiters I haven’t seen in all these months. My stomach is clenching thinking about Nicola’s food. But most of all, I have missed the hated Nicola, and the music.

I miss dancing and weaving the little magic that is within my ability. I miss being a woman on display.

I miss the fine art of seduction through belly dance.

Teela…who is usually Lady Nyo here, except when she’s dancing

Thanks to all the bellydancers, and dancers out there…

who are including my bellydance entries on their websites…

In particular “Voice of Dance” which is in the view of the “New York Times”

“the real thing”. It’s wonderful to be included in this.

Also, and even more importantly, I am hearing from other Belly Dancers around the country….in comments on the blog, and mostly an exchange through private email.

I am delighted to exchange tips and to hear what other women are doing in their dance presently.

Belly dance is as essential to the spirit of a woman as is any other talent and discipline. It invades the heart and soul and transforms not just the body (and sometimes doesn’t …not fast enough!) but inspires and transforms the mind. It effects the total woman.

I am going to post soon something about Hyperarousal Trance. I discovered this by accident two years ago….and didn’t know what was happening to me, but was amazed with the results. I wrote 5 novels under it’s influence, (mostly unfinished) but many other works that were finished and are now being published soon.

Hyperarousal Trance comes from a few different sources…but especially the particular rhythms or beats of the ayyoub rhythm. There are other factors at work here..but this has made an amazing difference in my dancing and writing.

More later, but many, many belly dancers know what I am talking about.

Lady Nyo and Teela the dancer in and outside….

A Short Story: “Ahmed is Dying of Love”

The ney is a wooden flute, only played by men.  Women aren’t to touch it.
The Zar is a trance ritual to get rid of demons.  Men don’t touch it. (except to play the ney at it…)

AHMED IS DYING OF LOVE

“Ahmed is dying of love”….

I hear Hadil next to me, chanting something under her breath.

“What? Is Ahmed sick or something?” I ask, for Ahmed is a young Algerian waiter in this Lebanese restaurant.  He’s a sweetheart and a good ney player.

We are bellydancers, applying our makeup in this ‘green room’ Nicola has given us behind the kitchen. An old sofa against the wall, a curtain over the doorway, and the same tray of dried fruits, nuts and bottled water on the table. Since we rarely touch it, we think he recycles it nightly.   Nicola is the owner and he’s very protective of the dancers.  No window in the room, typical of the seclusion of Muslim women.  I hear Hadil chanting again.

“So, what is wrong with Ahmed?”  I am trying to apply mascara, and since I don’t wear it except for dancing, I look like a raccoon.  Leila,  the head of the troupe, the uber bellydancer, insists on the heavy makeup.  We look more ‘professional’ she tells us.  Yeah, more professional, but what profession?

Hadil, the graceful one, puts down her blusher brush and looks at me with a deadpan expression.  Or her usual expression because Hadil is languid to the extreme for a bellydancer.  I always feel she should be given some catnip to perk her up.

“Ahmed has a huge crush on you.”

What?!  My face reflects my amazement.  I have to be 20 years older than Ahmed.  He’s so sweet and innocent.  Perhaps not so innocent.

“Do you suppose he has noticed my wedding ring?  And besides, he’s met my husband. You know, the one who sits at a table by the door?  His asthma kicks in, he says, when we dance because of Nicola’s moldy carpet.”

“Well, he’s hopeful, then.”  Hadil adjusts her lovely breasts in the heavy bra.  We all suffer because of the costumes, heavy and uncomfortable. We wear double bras, something soft sewn into the costume bras.  The women in Turkey who hand sew these bras must be sadists looking for masochists to torture. They have found us.

“Hopeful of what?”  I turn and stare at her instead of looking in the mirror before us.

“Well, you bring him presents.”

“I brought him a couple of dozen eggs.  What’s so special about that?”

“Think about it, Aurora.  In his country, when a woman brings a man such a valuable present, she is announcing her interest.  And besides, you’re American.”

“What?  Does Ahmed have trouble with his green card?”

I think over what she said.  I have brought him a basket filled with my chicken’s eggs.  I have done this several times.  Usually Nicola grabs the eggs and says that he will make himself a six- egg omelet.  I wondered if Ahmed ever got to eat an egg.

I thought about one of the first conversations I had with Ahmed.   I gave him a dozen eggs, and his eyes, those beautiful black pools, grew large at the sight of them.  I was touched.  He explained in Algeria, in the countryside, at 11am sharp, he and his brothers would hear the hen cluck her egg-laying song and they would rush out to find the egg.  Ahmed was younger than his brothers, and rarely got the egg.  He would disappear from home, and lay in wait for that egg, but usually he was summoned back to the chores or the field with the others.  This constant supply of eggs from my pet chickens was of value to him, and not just for the eating.

“So”, I said to Hadil, now brushing out her hair.  “The price of love in Algeria is a couple dozen eggs?”

Hadil snorted.  “No, it’s also because you are American.”

“And American women put out?”

She laughed uneasily.  Obviously, she knew more but wasn’t telling me.  Then She’nez came in, the beautiful Amazon from Somalia, and bending down, she put her face next to mine, and I saw our light and dark reflections in the mirror. Painted day and night.

“Ahmed is dying for love of you.” She chanted.

“God no, She’nez…not you too!”  I was laughing, but concerned a bit about Ahmed.

“Did you see how his ney fell out of his mouth at the Zar?  He saw you writhing around with your demons and the poor boy forgot what he was there for.”  She’nez laughed, a deep rumble from her dark, silky throat.

I thought of the Zar.  We were 12 women, dancers and students, and we were doing the ritual as a ‘bonding’ between us.  We danced out our demons, drawn by our drama queen lives to the attention of compassionate hands.  We twirled and jerked, our hair flinging outward with our spins, our demons holding onto the ends of our hair before we threw them off and into the waiting arms of the Sheikha. I have no similar cultural rituals and I was a bit abandoned in my behavior, but then again, I am the class clown.  I have been called down for this before.  I just like to make people laugh.

“Ahmed thought you really were possessed.  He told Abdul that he was mortally afraid for you.  He burned incense and said many prayers that night.”

I started to laugh.  My antics were getting me in trouble again.  I had thrown myself on my back, and wiggled like a roach dying of poison.  I would be dead, only to come back to life with my arms and legs in grotesque positions, and I would do it again.  I had my friends around me laughing, but we were all high on the turkish coffee and friendship. We didn’t get much chance to let loose like this.  So many petty things were dissolved in that afternoon of vigorous fun.  The stolen mascara, the blushers not replaced, the intentional bumps on the dance floor, the exchanged nastiness between us while smiling at the audience.  It was a clearing of many problems at that Zar.  Women things.

“So, Miss American Belly Dancer.  What are you going to do about Ahmed?”

I thought about it.  There really wasn’t much I could do.  He was a man, with all the yearnings for the kindness of a woman.  Even a much older woman who only gave him eggs.

That night, when I went out on the dance floor, I saw Ahmed at the other side of the room, playing a drum.  I waved at him and threw him a kiss, making him blush heavily.  At least a kiss, so public, from the pretty American belly dancer, would begin to repay his concern and his prayers.

I made a mental note to bring him eggs and spring plums from my trees. Let the girls talk about that!  Ahmed’s concern would be repaid with this coin of friendship.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“The Zar Tale” …a Turkish Tale of a handsome devil.

(The Zar is a number of things in Middle Eastern and North African societies. One, it’s a ritual of extracting a Demon from the possessed, placating and restoring them into the original body. Two, a Zar is also a Demon or Djinn. Three, the Zar is a bonding or ritual dance among women. And four, the Zar is also a form of Hyperarousal Trance, distinct from meditative trances.)

The ZAR, a Turkish Tale

“Woman!” said Ahmed with anger. “We are married a year. You behave like a child! You don’t speak to my mother. I did not get married for this treatment. You are a terrible wife!”

Ahmed has a reason to be angry with Aya. She does not act the spouse he believed he deserved. He expected a paradise on earth, a wife pliable to his wishes and prepared to serve his wants. But Aya was young, only fifteen years old at the wedding. She came from across the mountain, from a village no different from where she was now. No village in this part of the country was much different, and the mountains bred people repeating the same traditions and habits.

Aya was very young. She was a daughter born in the middle of ten children, not noticed by many. Plus, she was only a shy girl, and not expected to shine. When a matchmaker came from Ahmed’s parents, Aya’s were relieved to marry her off. Both sets of parents, with the matchmaker in the middle, bargained for Aya much as her father bought sheep in the market. Aya was married and packed off to Ahmed’s parents, and that was the last Aya’s family saw of her that year.

Aya drooped. Deprived of the only people she knew and thrust into a family of strangers, she became even more timid. The excitement of the honeymoon had passed, and living with Ahmed in only a room apart from the large, noisy family was not much of a change. All brides have hope and expectations, and though she said nothing, Aya still was a bride.

Ahmed’s mother smelled trouble. She could tell by the scowl of her favorite son he was not happy. Peace on earth depended upon the contentment of men, and Ahmed’s mother had tradition to uphold. She knew the trouble gossip could cause, she had been the generator of much of it during her life. Soon Ahmed’s sadness would be common discussion around the well, and the family would lose face. Something had to be done.

Ahmed’s mother went and cornered her in the courtyard while she fed chickens.

“Aya, why the long face, my daughter?” Ahmed’s mother showed little attention to her daughter- in- law, for she did not understand her. She was quiet, which was proper for a good Muslim woman, but too quiet. She had grown listless and preoccupied with spending time on the roof looking over the dry and rocky countryside. Many times Ahmed’s mother caught her up there, a strange look in her eye, and seemingly deaf to her calls. At first she had hoped for a grandchild, but Ahmed was spending more time with the men and less with his wife. Surely the girl should be able to charm her new husband. She must not be trying! Ahmed said little but all in the house knew something was wrong.

Ahmed’s mother could get nothing from her. The silly bride bowed her head, and cast her eyes downward, looking at her dusty sandals. Well, the peace of her household was at stake, and if Ahmed was unhappy, Ahmed’s mother was prepared to do battle.

But not with the girl. That would be beneath Ahmed’s mother.

So in the time honored tradition, Ahmed’s mother made a formal visit to the local Sheikha. She would know what to do. Ahmed’s mother would at least have the satisfaction of doing her duty by her son. If the Sheikha, named Shakira, was successful, Ahmed’s mother and father would be able at least to keep all of the bride price. To return it, or even a part, would be a terrible burden. Anyway, most of the bride price was already spent.

Shakira met with Ahmed’s mother and told her to send the girl. She would find out the trouble between Ahmed and Aya. She would fix what was broken.

At the appointed time, Aya showed up with her mother- in- law and a very quiet Ahmed. Shakira of course knew the young bride on sight, her family name and that she was a new bride, but she had never reason to notice her. She sometimes saw her at the village well, washing clothes, or feeding the chickens outside the door of Ahmed’s house. But she didn’t seem remarkable to Shakira. Just a young bride, nothing special.

Aya was very young, with not much meat on her bones. She would not give much heat next to Ahmed when the winter winds blew down from the mountains and turned the air raw and bitter. Better had Ahmed’s parents find him a bride who would fill his bed and warm his feet with her flesh. One could see there was bigger problems than too- thin Aya. The girl looked haunted to Shakira’s eyes.

Sending Ahmed and his mother home, Shakira prepared to question young Aya. First she had her sit and served her the sweet tea they brewed in the village and drank on all occasions. Aya was quiet, which wasn’t out of line for a young Muslim girl, but she noticed that she kept her eyes cast on the floor. This was more than a normal shyness. The girl appeared deeply disturbed.

“Come, Aya. Do not be shy. You know why you are here. Your husband has made complaints about your behavior in the marriage. Is something wrong, my daughter?”

Aya sipped at her tea and shook her head, but did not raise her eyes to Shakira’s face.

The Sheikha Shakira could tell many things by the shine of the eyes, by the carriage of the head, by the shoulders, by the sheen of the skin. Although thin, Aya did not appear sick, just unhappy.

“Aya”. Shakira thought a direct approach would get some answers. “Does Ahmed do what a husband should? Do you know what a husband does for his wife?”

Aya blushed, and her hands shook as she put her small glass down.

“Tell me,” said Shakira with an encouraging smile. “Does Ahmed put off his own pleasure for yours?” The look on Aya’s face told Shakira that Ahmed did not.

Aya’s blush increased, giving her dusky skin a bloom of beauty.

“Tell me, Aya.” Shakira’s voice was gentle and low, a conspiracy brewing between two women against all men.

“Does Ahmed touch you in your holy woman’s place? You know after you are married, it is right and good that he should? He should use his male member and his fingers and even his tongue.” Shakira sat back and looked closely at Aya. Her hands shook and she didn’t pick up her glass.

Ah, thought Shakira. Another stupid man that doesn’t know how to stroke his wife into bliss! Allah punish these men who are so selfish!

Shakira thought a different approach would be more fruitful. “Aya, do you touch yourself down there in your holy place? Did you know God has given you a body with all the pleasures of paradise on earth? You can touch and stroke and push your fingers in there and have lovely feelings. Perhaps you need to show Ahmed how to arouse you? You are married a year, and if your husband doesn’t understand, perhaps you need to give him a push. Do you understand, daughter?

Suddenly Aya started shaking violently and a great sob escaped from her throat.

“Aaaiiiyee! It is like a man is already in there…in my holy place, and he strokes where Ahmed puts his flute. I try to resist him, it is a demon inside of me! but I am not strong enough. Ah, Mother Shakira, help me! I have thought many times as I go to the roof of the house I would throw myself over the edge!”

This burst of words shocked Shakira. She sat there blinking, watching the young girl sob out her shame and fear. Ah! Now she had something to work with!

A demon. In bed between an ignorant girl and an even more ignorant husband!
But! This was something most interesting, something Shakira encountered at times among women. From the narrowness of their lives, in their isolation from the cities and from the stupidity of the men, a demon popped up frequently in the lives of married women. And thank God only married women. They seemed to scorn the virgins, which was good, for if they didn’t, it would mean the murder of many young women by their fathers and brothers, thought Shakira.

These spirits were helpful to women as Shakira knew well. They could give a woman a certain liberty to sass their husbands. If a word popped out, she could blame it on the Zar, the demon. It was not her fault, and punishing her would do no good. Something just came over her and she didn’t know where it came from. It was the Zar’s fault. He needed to have his power ‘reduced’. He needed a good talking to, to be placated, given new marching orders.

Shakira thought about the demon. She knew she could never can purge a Zar, these troubling spirits, she would have to cajole, puzzle, confuse and ultimately, placate them. But! She would have to restore them with their powers reduced. No one wants a Zar wandering around scaring the children and chickens. It was bad enough they sat under the trees in the woods on the mountains and woe to anyone who cast their eyes on a bodiless Zar! Shakira knew that to be immediate possession. The Zar needed a human body. That was where Zars lived comfortably.

Ah! An excuse for a Zar ritual! Shakira rubbed her hands in glee. The price of the feast and the sacrifice was less important than the chance to get the women together for some fun. And Zars were fun in a life that was black- clad, dusty and under the thumb of Allah and the men.

On the day of the Zar ritual, Shakira placed a tray of nuts and fruit on an altar in the middle of the room. The drummers came in earlier and were sitting together talking, laughing and drinking tea. The ney player, a young man, was sitting apart from the drummers, all women now. Incense was heavy, and the smell of it was hypnotic even before the drummers started beating their rhythm.

Shakira spent some time with Aya, talking to her, helping her ease herself into the ritual soon to take place. Aya had suffered some nerves, thrown up, and then seemed resigned to her fate, though she remained pale.

More women straggled into the room, waddling like black crows in a field. They sat in a rough circle, breathing in the heady perfume wafting from the burning incense. Some were praying to themselves, others beginning chants, and the combined sounds were like a hive of bees in the sunshine, dipping into the honey. Shakira was trying not to slip into her own trance, but the warm weather and the sunshine conspired to lull her senses. She looked over at Aya sitting with her mother and mother-in-law. She was dressed in a white cotton gown, her hair loose down her back. The hair was the last place that Aya’s demon would hold on to as she tossed her head around and around, throwing him into the arms of Shakira. She wondered what this demon would be like. Would he be a hard one to cajole? Would he demand a price for his obedience? Would she be strong enough, without rallying her own demons, to take him on?

None of this could she know in advance. Allah Provide, she prayed to herself.

Then the drummers started their different rhythms. Each part of the body was capable of possession and a different rhythm beat out on the stretched goat skin drums would find them out. The rhythm would call out to the soul of the demon, and he would have to answer. It was heartbeat to heartbeat.

The first rhythm was the ayoub, ‘dum-tec-a dum-tec-a’ becoming more and more intense. Shakira could not help begin her own trance. It was a necessary part of the Zar ritual. She would catch the demon when he was tossed from Aya’s hair, wrestle him in her own arms and give him a good talking to!

Aya had risen, fear distorting her pale face as she walked around the room, her eyes like big dark moons. A blind man could see how frightened she was! Then, allowing herself to feel the rhythm that seeped into the blood of all there, she started to nod her head, back and forth, little nods at first, as if she were tentatively allowing the heartbeat of the drums to enter her body. Her eyes glazed and she started to change the gait of her walking, as if she was swaying to some internal rhythm set up as a counterpoint to what was heard by all others. Her hips started to jerk and her head rolled on her neck in little circles, hair flying in gentle waves around her. The ney player picked up the tempo a bit, the drums followed. Aya’s movements around the circle increased in speed. She started to whirl around as she walked, her face upwards to the ceiling, now her hair flying out like a whirling Dervish’s skirts. Faster and faster Aya twirled and jerked around the room, throwing her arms outward and upward. She uttered little shrieks, unheard with the general chanting and drumming and the shrill music of the ney.

Shakira knew that if there was a demon inside of Aya, he would soon appear. She swayed back and forth in her own trance, standing with her arms outward towards the spinning girl.

There! Something hit Shakira in her chest! Something solid and hard enough to almost knock the wind from her. Aya sank down in a heap, shuddering with spasms. Women moved to chant over her, and ever the drums and ney player increased their frenzied rhythms.

Shakira slipped into full trance and talked to the Demon standing there, hovering with a scowl, a male Demon of course! His aura was powerful, and he shimmered before her with a golden glimmer. Shakira saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, and saw how beautiful and arrogant this demon was.

“In the name of Allah, the One God! Demon. Tell me your name!”

Shakira spoke in the tongue of the tranced, unintelligible to the women around the room.

He scowled at her, but bidden he was commanded to answer.

“My name is Ali”, and his voice was sweet and seductive, in spite of the grimace.

Ah! Thought Shakira. What a lovely demon to possess a woman. His hair was black and lay in curls over his brow. His lips were full, the color of pomegranate seeds. His nose was like an arrow, straight and elegant. His eyes were two black and shimmering pools, his cheeks like halves of apples. Ah! Shakira was shaken by his beauty. She cleared her throat and her thoughts before speaking again to him.

“Demon. Listen to me. You disrupt the marriage of Ahmed and Aya. You must stop your demonic ways and let Ahmed have back his wife.”

“Ahmed is a fool and doesn’t know what to do with Aya. She is afraid of him, he plays his flute for himself, and ignores his wife.” Demon Ali’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, seeded with contempt.

“True, true enough, Demon. But you could help here. You could teach Aya things to please Ahmed and perhaps dense Ahmed will become a proper husband.”

“Why should I help Ahmed? What is Ahmed to me?” Demon Ali spat on the ground, a golden stream of honey.

“Ah Demon! You are too young or stupid yourself if you don’t think here. You could teach Aya where to place her hands on herself and Ahmed. You could take your own pleasure between them. How much more it would be if you brought them together as man and wife! You could tickle Aya’s womb and love chamber and she would toss her hips like a proper wife at Ahmed. You could stick your tongue on Aya’s button and make her think of love. You could torment both and what Demon isn’t happiest when he is tormenting two instead of one?”

The Demon Ali pulsated and quivered with her suggestions. Shakira could see he was considering her words.

(Demon Ali thought it over and could see her point of argument. If nothing else, he could torment Ahmed in some particularly pleasing way to demons. Perhaps he could be an irritant in more ways than one. Perhaps he could make Ahmed’s cock fall off–)

“I hear your thoughts, Demon. Consider the case. Either Aya acts the proper wife to Ahmed, or Ahmed sends her back to her parents. She will disgrace her family, they will suffer needlessly because of a silly and selfish devil.”

Shakira could tell that Ali the Demon was considering his choices. He glimmered and glowed and vibrated and fairly danced in the air. Shakira noticed too that his male member was vibrating along with the rest of him. An impressive piece of anatomy for any man or demon. Ah! Ali the Demon was wasted on that little fool Aya!

Shakira, a wise woman with quite a number of years of experience with Djinns, decided she would have compassion for this pretty demon standing before her in all his glory. Perhaps this alluring devil could entertain her, Shakira, and leave Aya alone. She had an eye for a good looking male, and knowing the nature of demons, she could take some pleasure for herself under her chador at times. Perhaps something mutually pleasing to both could be arranged. It was worth a thought.

“So, Demon…what will it be? Will you help Aya become a wife and be a good demon, or do I have to call forth stronger Spirits to make you think about your behavior? It is your choice.”

Ali the Demon sighed, and it was like a sweet wind blowing from the east up Shakira’s skirts. Her eyes widened, in spite of her trance, and a smile came over her face. The Demon slyly looked at Shakira from under the fringe of his black lashes. A smile exchanged between them…

A bargain was struck!

Ahmed and Aya became a happy couple. Yes, Ali the Demon still tickled Aya in her love passage, and sat smoking his hooka crosslegged up by her womb. Ahmed was pleased with Aya now as his wife, and eternally grateful to the Sheikha.

And as for Shakira, she and Ali the Demon enjoyed many hours under Shakira’s chador. He tickled Sharika around the ears, and she spread her legs when she was busy at her kitchen fire, preparing food or just standing at the window, watching her neighbors outside. Peace reigned in both households.

Blessings on the head of Sheikha Shakira!

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

THE ZAR, A Turkish Tale………

was the first story and  grew into “The Zar Tales”. I am rewriting this short story for inclusion in “A Seasoning of Lust”.

(The Zar is a number of things in Middle Eastern and North African societies. One, it’s a ritual of extracting a Demon from the possessed, placating and restoring them into the original body. Two, a Zar is also a Demon or Djinn. Three, the Zar is a bonding or ritual dance among women. And four, the Zar is also a form of Hyperarousal Trance, distinct from meditative trances.)

The ZAR, a Turkish Tale

“Woman!” said Ahmed with anger. “We are married a year. You behave like a child! You don’t speak to my mother. I did not get married for this treatment. You are a terrible wife!”

Ahmed has a reason to be angry with Aya. She does not act the spouse he believed he deserved. He expected a paradise on earth, a wife pliable to his wishes and prepared to serve his wants. But Aya was young, only fifteen years old at the wedding. She came from across the mountain, from a village no different from where she was now. No village in this part of the country was much different, and the mountains bred people repeating the same traditions and habits.

Aya was very young. She was a daughter born in the middle of ten children, not noticed by many. Plus, she was only a shy girl, and not expected to shine. When a matchmaker came from Ahmed’s parents, Aya’s were relieved to marry her off. Both sets of parents, with the matchmaker in the middle, bargained for Aya much as her father bought sheep in the market. Aya was married and packed off to Ahmed’s parents, and that was the last Aya’s family saw of her that year.

Aya drooped. Deprived of the only people she knew and thrust into a family of strangers, she became even more timid. The excitement of the honeymoon had passed, and living with Ahmed in only a room apart from the large, noisy family was not much of a change. All brides have hope and expectations, and though she said nothing, Aya still was a bride.

Ahmed’s mother smelled trouble. She could tell by the scowl of her favorite son he was not happy. Peace on earth depended upon the contentment of men, and Ahmed’s mother had tradition to uphold. She knew the trouble gossip could cause, she had been the generator of much of it during her life. Soon Ahmed’s sadness would be common discussion around the well, and the family would lose face. Something had to be done.

Ahmed’s mother went and cornered her in the courtyard while she fed chickens.

“Aya, why the long face, my daughter?” Ahmed’s mother showed little attention to her daughter- in- law, for she did not understand her. She was quiet, which was proper for a good Muslim woman, but too quiet. She had grown listless and preoccupied with spending time on the roof looking over the dry and rocky countryside. Many times Ahmed’s mother caught her up there, a strange look in her eye, and seemingly deaf to her calls. At first she had hoped for a grandchild, but Ahmed was spending more time with the men and less with his wife. Surely the girl should be able to charm her new husband. She must not be trying! Ahmed said little but all in the house knew something was wrong.

Ahmed’s mother could get nothing from her. The silly bride bowed her head, and cast her eyes downward, looking at her dusty sandals. Well, the peace of her household was at stake, and if Ahmed was unhappy, Ahmed’s mother was prepared to do battle.

But not with the girl. That would be beneath Ahmed’s mother.

So in the time honored tradition, Ahmed’s mother made a formal visit to the local Sheikha. She would know what to do. Ahmed’s mother would at least have the satisfaction of doing her duty by her son. If the Sheikha, named Shakira, was successful, Ahmed’s mother and father would be able at least to keep all of the bride price. To return it, or even a part, would be a terrible burden. Anyway, most of the bride price was already spent.

Shakira met with Ahmed’s mother and told her to send the girl. She would find out the trouble between Ahmed and Aya. She would fix what was broken.

At the appointed time, Aya showed up with her mother- in- law and a very quiet Ahmed. Shakira of course knew the young bride on sight, her family name and that she was a new bride, but she had never reason to notice her. She sometimes saw her at the village well, washing clothes, or feeding the chickens outside the door of Ahmed’s house. But she didn’t seem remarkable to Shakira. Just a young bride, nothing special.

Aya was very young, with not much meat on her bones. She would not give much heat next to Ahmed when the winter winds blew down from the mountains and turned the air raw and bitter. Better had Ahmed’s parents find him a bride who would fill his bed and warm his feet with her flesh. One could see there was bigger problems than too- thin Aya. The girl looked haunted to Shakira’s eyes.

Sending Ahmed and his mother home, Shakira prepared to question young Aya. First she had her sit and served her the sweet tea they brewed in the village and drank on all occasions. Aya was quiet, which wasn’t out of line for a young Muslim girl, but she noticed that she kept her eyes cast on the floor. This was more than a normal shyness. The girl appeared deeply disturbed.

“Come, Aya. Do not be shy. You know why you are here. Your husband has made complaints about your behavior in the marriage. Is something wrong, my daughter?”

Aya sipped at her tea and shook her head, but did not raise her eyes to Shakira’s face.

The Sheikha Shakira could tell many things by the shine of the eyes, by the carriage of the head, by the shoulders, by the sheen of the skin. Although thin, Aya did not appear sick, just unhappy.

“Aya”. Shakira thought a direct approach would get some answers. “Does Ahmed do what a husband should? Do you know what a husband does for his wife?”

Aya blushed, and her hands shook as she put her small glass down.

“Tell me,” said Shakira with an encouraging smile. “Does Ahmed put off his own pleasure for yours?” The look on Aya’s face told Shakira that Ahmed did not.

Aya’s blush increased, giving her dusky skin a bloom of beauty.

“Tell me, Aya.” Shakira’s voice was gentle and low, a conspiracy brewing between two women against all men.

“Does Ahmed touch you in your holy woman’s place? You know after you are married, it is right and good that he should? He should use his male member and his fingers and even his tongue.” Shakira sat back and looked closely at Aya. Her hands shook and she didn’t pick up her glass.

Ah, thought Shakira. Another stupid man that doesn’t know how to stroke his wife into bliss! Allah punish these men who are so selfish!

Shakira thought a different approach would be more fruitful. “Aya, do you touch yourself down there in your holy place? Did you know God has given you a body with all the pleasures of paradise on earth? You can touch and stroke and push your fingers in there and have lovely feelings. Perhaps you need to show Ahmed how to arouse you? You are married a year, and if your husband doesn’t understand, perhaps you need to give him a push. Do you understand, daughter?

Suddenly Aya started shaking violently and a great, wrenching sob escaped from her throat.

“Aaaiiiyee! It is like a man is already in there…in my holy place, and he strokes where Ahmed puts his flute. I try to resist him, it is a demon inside of me! but I am not strong enough. Ah, Mother Shakira, help me! I have thought many times as I go to the roof of the house I would throw myself over the edge!”

This burst of words shocked Shakira. She sat there blinking, watching the young girl sob out her shame and fear. Ah! Now she had something to work with!

A demon. In bed between an ignorant girl and an even more ignorant husband!
But! This was something most interesting, something Shakira encountered at times among women. From the narrowness of their lives, in their isolation from the cities and from the stupidity of the men, a demon popped up frequently in the lives of married women. And thank God only married women. They seemed to scorn the virgins, which was good, for if they didn’t, it would mean the murder of many young women by their fathers and brothers, thought Shakira.

These spirits were helpful to women as Shakira knew well. They could give a woman a certain liberty to sass their husbands. If a word popped out, she could blame it on the Zar, the demon. It was not her fault, and punishing her would do no good. Something just came over her and she didn’t know where it came from. It was the Zar’s fault. He needed to have his power ‘reduced’. He needed a good talking to, to be placated, given new marching orders.

Shakira thought about the demon. She knew she could never can purge a Zar, these troubling spirits, she would have to cajole, puzzle, confuse and ultimately, placate them. But! She would have to restore them with their powers reduced. No one wants a Zar wandering around scaring the children and chickens. It was bad enough they sat under the trees in the woods on the mountains and woe to anyone who cast their eyes on a bodiless Zar! Shakira knew that to be immediate possession. The Zar needed a human body. That was where Zars lived comfortably.

Ah! An excuse for a Zar ritual! Shakira rubbed her hands in glee. The price of the feast and the sacrifice was less important than the chance to get the women together for some fun. And Zars were fun in a life that was black- clad, dusty and under the thumb of Allah and the men.

On the day of the Zar ritual, Shakira placed a tray of nuts and fruit on an altar in the middle of the room. The drummers came in earlier and were sitting together talking, laughing and drinking tea. The ney player, a young man, was sitting apart from the drummers, all women now. Incense was heavy, and the smell of it was hypnotic even before the drummers started beating their rhythm.

Shakira spent some time with Aya, talking to her, helping her ease herself into the ritual soon to take place. Aya had suffered some nerves, thrown up, and then seemed resigned to her fate, though she remained pale.

More women straggled into the room, waddling like black crows in a field. They sat in a rough circle, breathing in the heady perfume wafting from the burning incense. Some were praying to themselves, others beginning chants, and the combined sounds were like a hive of bees in the sunshine, dipping into the honey. Shakira was trying not to slip into her own trance, but the warm weather and the sunshine conspired to lull her senses. She looked over at Aya sitting with her mother and mother-in-law. She was dressed in a white cotton gown, her hair loose down her back. The hair was the last place that Aya’s demon would hold on to as she tossed her head around and around, throwing him into the arms of Shakira. She wondered what this demon would be like. Would he be a hard one to cajole? Would he demand a price for his obedience? Would she be strong enough, without rallying her own demons, to take him on?

None of this could she know in advance. Allah Provide, she prayed to herself.

Then the drummers started their different rhythms. Each part of the body was capable of possession and a different rhythm beat out on the stretched goat skin drums would find them out. The rhythm would call out to the soul of the demon, and he would have to answer. It was heartbeat to heartbeat.

The first rhythm was the ayoub, ‘dum-tec-a dum-tec-a’ becoming more and more intense. Shakira could not help begin her own trance. It was a necessary part of the Zar ritual. She would catch the demon when he was tossed from Aya’s hair, wrestle him in her own arms and give him a good talking to!

Aya had risen, fear distorting her pale face as she walked around the room, her eyes like big dark moons. A blind man could see how frightened she was! Then, allowing herself to feel the rhythm that seeped into the blood of all there, she started to nod her head, back and forth, little nods at first, as if she were tentatively allowing the heartbeat of the drums to enter her body. Her eyes glazed and she started to change the gait of her walking, as if she was swaying to some internal rhythm set up as a counterpoint to what was heard by all others. Her hips started to jerk and her head rolled on her neck in little circles, hair flying in gentle waves around her. The ney player picked up the tempo a bit, the drums followed. Aya’s movements around the circle increased in speed. She started to whirl around as she walked, her face upwards to the ceiling, now her hair flying out like a whirling Dervish’s skirts. Faster and faster Aya twirled and jerked around the room, throwing her arms outward and upward. She uttered little shrieks, unheard with the general chanting and drumming and the shrill music of the ney.

Shakira knew that if there was a demon inside of Aya, he would soon appear. She swayed back and forth in her own trance, standing with her arms outward towards the spinning girl.

There! Something hit Shakira in her chest! Something solid and hard enough to almost knock the wind from her. Aya sank down in a heap, shuddering with spasms. Women moved to chant over her, and ever the drums and ney player increased their frenzied rhythms.

Shakira slipped into full trance and talked to the Demon standing there, hovering with a scowl, a male Demon of course! His aura was powerful, and he shimmered before her with a golden glimmer. Shakira saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, and saw how beautiful and arrogant this demon was.

“In the name of Allah, the One God! Demon. Tell me your name!”

Shakira spoke in the tongue of the tranced, unintelligible to the women around the room.

He scowled at her, but bidden he was commanded to answer.

“My name is Ali”, and his voice was sweet and seductive, in spite of the grimace.

Ah! Thought Shakira. What a lovely demon to possess a woman. His hair was black and lay in curls over his brow. His lips were full, the color of pomegranate seeds. His nose was like an arrow, straight and elegant. His eyes were two black and shimmering pools, his cheeks like halves of apples. Ah! Shakira was shaken by his beauty. She cleared her throat and her thoughts before speaking again to him.

“Demon. Listen to me. You disrupt the marriage of Ahmed and Aya. You must stop your demonic ways and let Ahmed have back his wife.”

“Ahmed is a fool and doesn’t know what to do with Aya. She is afraid of him, he plays his flute for himself, and ignores his wife.” Demon Ali’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, seeded with contempt.

“True, true enough, Demon. But you could help here. You could teach Aya things to please Ahmed and perhaps dense Ahmed will become a proper husband.”

“Why should I help Ahmed? What is Ahmed to me?” Demon Ali spat on the ground, a golden stream of honey.

“Ah Demon! You are too young or stupid yourself if you don’t think here. You could teach Aya where to place her hands on herself and Ahmed. You could take your own pleasure between them. How much more it would be if you brought them together as man and wife! You could tickle Aya’s womb and love chamber and she would toss her hips like a proper wife at Ahmed. You could stick your tongue on Aya’s button and make her think of love. You could torment both and what Demon isn’t happiest when he is tormenting two instead of one?”

The Demon Ali pulsated and quivered with her suggestions. Shakira could see he was considering her words.

(Demon Ali thought it over and could see her point of argument. If nothing else, he could torment Ahmed in some particularly pleasing way to demons. Perhaps he could be an irritant in more ways than one. Perhaps he could make Ahmed’s cock fall off–)

“I hear your thoughts, Demon. Consider the case. Either Aya acts the proper wife to Ahmed, or Ahmed sends her back to her parents. She will disgrace her family, they will suffer needlessly because of a silly and selfish devil.”

Shakira could tell that Ali the Demon was considering his choices. He glimmered and glowed and vibrated and fairly danced in the air. Shakira noticed too that his male member was vibrating along with the rest of him. An impressive piece of anatomy for any man or demon. Ah! Ali the Demon was wasted on that little fool Aya!

Shakira, a wise woman with quite a number of years of experience with Djinns, decided she would have compassion for this pretty demon standing before her in all his glory. Perhaps this alluring devil could entertain her, Shakira, and leave Aya alone. She had an eye for a good looking male, and knowing the nature of demons, she could take some pleasure for herself under her chador at times. Perhaps something mutually pleasing to both could be arranged. It was worth a thought.

“So, Demon…what will it be? Will you help Aya become a wife and be a good demon, or do I have to call forth stronger Spirits to make you think about your behavior? It is your choice.”

Ali the Demon sighed, and it was like a sweet wind blowing from the east up Shakira’s skirts. Her eyes widened, in spite of her trance, and a smile came over her face. The Demon slyly looked at Shakira from under the fringe of his black lashes. A smile exchanged between them…

A bargain was struck!

Ahmed and Aya became a happy couple. Yes, Ali the Demon still tickled Aya in her love passage, and sat smoking his hooka crosslegged up by her womb. Ahmed was pleased with Aya now as his wife, and eternally grateful to the Sheikha.

And as for Shakira, she and Ali the Demon enjoyed many hours under Shakira’s chador. He tickled Sharika around the ears, and she spread her legs when she was busy at her kitchen fire, preparing food or just standing at the window, watching her neighbors outside. Peace reigned in both households.

Blessings on the head of Sheikha Shakira!

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

Serious entry this am….not now! I’m dressing

to go dance…first time really in 5 months…and I am thinking what a chore in this heat.

Actually, belly dancing is more about ‘undressing’ but still what a chore in this heat.

After the bath, there is the usual shaving parts that might be crucial. There is hot rollers, hair spray, all the necessary toiletries. There are panties and a skirt, positioned just so beneath the belly button, curved to the hips and don’t show too much ass. There is the bra, is the performance monster shifting or are your boobs??? Do you have the sense to remember that the Turkish women in the countryside who make your costumes are sadists and leave pins in the bottom of your bra, or was that the trick of your alterer?

This week you got you hair cut for the first time in years…except little, little trims and the women who did the job were Nazis. They cut 6 inches off and now you have little ‘swing’. They waxed your eyebrows and you feel like a chemo girl. You now have to use more crap to contour eyebrows and the heat of the sun has melted your pencils. You find the elastic of your undies is questionable, and if they fall, you got more trouble. Your nails have been removed because they became a pain in the ass (literally) and you couldn’t pick your nose, but now you have nuthin’. Nice. You bend down to shake your boobs evenly into the cups and the one clasp in back breaks. You have to cannibalize another bra for the clasp. You bend down to shake your boobs evenly in the cups and they fall out this time. Not a good sign.

You get your weird hair out of curlers and tease, and it spikes off into uneven weird hairdo. You look closely and there is a pimple on your nose. You are too old for pimples. Nature doesn’t care.

You look for your dance heels and you find one. And only one. So you go for another pair, and you remember that they are really uncomfortable after an hour…or before.

You think, Glitter or not? You find green and red glitter, not the pearl/gold or silver glitter…and if you use you will look like a Xmas tree. Not the right season.

Jewelry. Lots of choices, but with layered hair, earrings need to be proportioned. Silver bangles need to be polished, and there goes the hands.

And about the hands….you better wear zils or you will be noticed. Or your stubby nails will be noticed and noted. Down.

You take a deep breath and notice that your stomach isn’t where it was. 5 months of computer and sloth and it wouldn’t be.

When you finally are dressed, your makeup is sliding because ….see the first paragraph.

Tonight is special. I haven’t danced in 5 months, and I have seriously missed it. I am getting misty eyed thinking of my Berber drummers and waiters I haven’t seen in all these months. My stomach is clenching thinking about Nicola’s food. But most of all, I have missed the hated Nicola, and the music.

I miss dancing and weaving the little magic that is within my ability. I miss being a woman on display.

I miss the fine art of seduction through belly dance.

Lady Nyo