‘L’AMOUR’: ARABIAN NIGHTS, MORE OR LESS
BY D. GRAY

The following article, looking like a true story, was published in Koinos magazine, issue 5, 1st Quarter 1995, published by the Amikejo Foundation, Amsterdam, pp. 25-8. It is set in a Mediterranean country in North Africa with a thriving tourist industry and French as a lingua franca and could only therefore be Morocco or Tunisia. Three of the photos accompanied the original article, while the other two preceded it in the same issue.

The small airplane had great trouble showing its Christian tourists as little as possible of the raging thunderstorm. Surely, the intentions of Allah towards the poet, my travel companion, and myself were not good. Hopefully this was just a warning and not an omen for our vacation, which had only just begun: we hadn’t even set foot on African soil yet. Really, we had tried to be so responsible, picking an organized vacation from a travel brochure, to a place with beaches, sun and rooms with no balconies. Real Dutchmen don’t spend too much money.

After we had landed at the airport, it stopped raining. Still grumbling about our narrow survival, we got on a bus that took us to our hotel. In the meantime it had already grown dark, at an hour which turned out to be normal around here. A pity, for the trip to the hotel took over an hour, and we couldn’t see anything of what was out there, so I still didn’t know what business I had being here, besides for the sun and the beaches. But anyway, I was on vacation under the secure wings of a hostess. And cheap!

I had never really visualized this country. Central Africa has its lions and leopards; people live there in clay huts with reed roofs; children still go around in the nude, and on Sundays in a loincloth, I presume. But Northern Africa?

Mosques with men on them who are calling every few hours, that Allah is powerful and Mohammed is his prophet; a redeeming prophet who might be reincarnated in any newborn boy. It all had something going for it, I thought, and, anyway, it was something pretty much different from the monotonous ringing of church bells every Sunday morning... early.

Our first night at the hotel, we decided to take it easy after the trip, so that next day we would be wide awake to get to know the little town.

It was already afternoon when we left our hotel. At once we were in the middle of a street, amongst orange trees. Crisscrossing several little streets at random, we arrived at the boulevard where, even though it was still pre-season, there was quite a bit of touristy activity going on. To avoid the bustle, we kept on walking on the beach.

After a few minutes we were spotted by a little boy, barely six years old. The little gent went barefoot, his pants were pretty much worn-out, and the sweater that covered his rounded little kiddie belly must have been knitted by a very shaky granny. He had lovely dark hair and a sweet little face. He came at us spontaneously with his arm straight forward and a little red flower in his hand, which he proudly presented.

After having accepted the flower we were at once robbed of an illusion. He held up his now empty hand, and it was obvious that he, no doubt in fluent Arabic, was asking for money. Our guide book had already warned us about the tremendous business instinct of the local population. Due to our negotiation techniques we managed to buy him off with pens for himself, his sisters, brothers and the rest of his family. As the little imp proudly walked away, he left the penless poet behind in a state of mild bewilderment. Strolling along we evaluated the incident, and promised each other that we would keep far away from young wheeler-dealers. A cup of coffee on a terrace was to seal the agreement we had just concluded.

The little terrace provided a lovely view of the bay and the boulevard, where several boys were trying to sell souvenirs. One of the most beautiful souvenir vendors came at us together with the coffee, and showed us his merchandise. We tried to make it clear in three different languages that we were not interested, but he wasn’t really convinced. He must have been able to smell our special interest, because all of a sudden he was whispering: Tamour!', and proceeded to indicate the size of his dick with his thumb and forefinger. That was more than the poet could take, and completely ignoring our resolute agreement, he made a date for that same evening. It seemed as if he had already forgotten about yesterday’s warning, for my poetizing travel companion jump at a proposal to meet at a cemetery.

Luckily he returned safely, so the next day we were able to pick up our holidays where we had started. Right there we were accosted once again, this time by a young man of about sixteen who invited us to have coffee with him. Heedful of our agreement and my mother’s advice never to go with strange boys, we reluctantly prepared to walk on. After few steps we noticed that the boy was following us and that he hastily tried to get a friend to accompany him. When he noticed that we were looking at him, his face began to beam. The smile on his face was in lovely harmony with his beautiful dark eyes and his long wavy hair; the moisture in his eyes had the same gleam as the transparent moisture on his red boys’ lips; he wasn’t that strange after and I forgot all about mother’s advice.

His friend, who had just arrived, was somewhat younger, and, if possible, even more beautiful. The older boy spoke German and dragged us into a cafe with his beautiful eyes. After we formally exchanged names - the younger one was called Mohammed - the older one asked us whether we were married. Our answer seemed to come as a relief. At the next question we looked at each other and wondered whether we had fully understood the boys’ intentions. To be on the safe side we verified it several times. We appeared to have understood it correctly after all: two exquisite boys wanted to make “l’amour” with us.

After we had somewhat nervously polished off our coffee, the boys knew about a room we could use. Hurriedly we paid the bill and went outside. A cop, strolling along a few meters further down the street, summoned the boys and began to hug them tightly, in a way that, in the West, would be reserved only for gays, but here is a way of greeting that is apparently completely normal.

We were not permitted to contemplate on this, for a few seconds later we are already in a cab. We felt somewhat awkward in the presence of the driver, who was looking straight ahead with a surly expression, but didn’t seem to be bothered at all with the fact that two Western tourists were living it up with local boys. After some hazy bends and windings through a number of little alleys, we came to a halt in front of a luxurious villa just a few minutes later.

Almost the entire family appeared to be present: an old woman, a few little boys and several young men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, among them the owner of the house. We paid him the rent, after which he showed us the whole house, and explained us about all kinds of little cupboards and pots and pans. It was odd to realize that nobody seemed to take offence at our intention to be alone with the boys. For a moment I was even afraid that we had completely misunderstood the situation.

Eventually we got to the bedroom. We had already approved of the house a long time ago. Then, fortunately, Mohammed took the initiative and grumbled to the others that they wanted to be alone with us. Chatting away loudly, the company left the bedroom under grandma’s command. I felt relieved.

It had grown silent. A minuscule little bolt on the door was to provide the necessary privacy. Again Mohammed took the initiative and shuttered the windows. For a moment my eyes had to get used to the darkness. The bedroom was furnished with a double bed, a table with two chairs, and another bed. As I was looking around, 1 noticed that the boys, just as the poet, had already begun to undress.

By now it had become clear to me that this act of love required a financial reward. It’s true that this made it less unique, but as I watched Mohammed’s shirt rising over his increasingly bare back, it reminded me of the rising of the curtain at the beginning of a theater performance: his well shaped chest had a natural bronze, the few hairs on his chest were like soft down, and, if you took a close look, his armpits bore witness to Mother Nature’s first attempts to turn him into a real man.

The metal click of his belt shook me awake. He pulled his pants down, and proceeded to untie his shoe laces rather clumsily. I got the impression that he was a little nervous.

In the mean time the poet was already waiting on the big bed expectantly. Outside I faintly heard a call for prayer. Allah does it five times a day, seven days a week. These boys probably hold their own with him. The older one laid down next to my travel companion and pulled down his underpants over his ankles, after which they seemed to be tossed away. I decided to remain in my chair and explained the poet that I don’t fancy love for sale. At first the boys thought it odd and seemed a little offended, but then they accepted this weirdo.

Eventually Mohammed managed to untie his laces and took off his pants altogether. Two beautiful soft legs emerged. He hesitated for a moment, before pulling down his underpants in one neat and skillful move. He was well hung and the first hairs had begun to sprout. As he came to me to grab my hand to pull me onto the bed, it took some effort to live up to my principles. As he turned around, I couldn’t help touching his beautiful, round, firm boys’ buns. They were wonderfully soft and bouncy. I tried to disappear into the shadows of the room, while the three of them were doing things on the bed that God - and no doubt Allah too - had forbidden.

After a half an hour and a lot of sweat, including mine we left the building. The afternoon heat as well as our heated bodies made us decide to have a drink together. Like real tourists we opted for a place on the beach. I got some soft-drinks and a beer for the older of the two at a little stall As we were sitting in the sand talking about football, two police officers on horseback approached unnoticed. Drawing even with us, one of the officers jumped of his mount and had a go at the older boy. Now we’re in for it, we thought; now we’re in trouble because of what had happened just before. But, to our relief, nothing was further from the truth. The officer was out of sorts because we had offered the boy - a sixteen year old, after all - an alcoholic beverage. The officer pulled his hair, and from Mohammed’s simultaneous interpretation we understood that the officer was also of the opinion that the boy badly needed a haircut.

When he was finished with the boy, the officer turned to us, and made it clear that offering beer to youngsters was strictly forbidden here. We promised never to do it again and apologized. The officer emptied the foaming beer into the sand, after which he, still somewhat peeved, mounted his horse and left us in a state of surprise.

Before we fully got over the initial surprise, the boys got ready to move on. Apparently, they had decided to call it a day. After a few kisses and extensive hand shaking, they left in the direction of the boulevard.

A refreshing dive in the Mediterranean, that was what we needed, and - after all - that was what we had come for in the first place.