Jewaira’s Boudoir

Driving and flipping through radio stations again, I come across Border Crossings on VOA and a dedication goes out to young Kwani from Africa whose best friend in school passed away last week and he has been feeling in low spirits. This song, the Dance by Garth Brooks, was dedicated to Kwani in memory of his best friend.

Meeting you for the last time. And it has been a long time since I last saw you too. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need protocol. I don’t need any buildup talk. No fuss. Just give me what I need from you. What I give so willingly.

When we meet, we are like two parts that have long been misplaced and finally find each other. Our bodies fuse into one; my mouth melts into yours, and I eat, drink, hungrily, thirstily, satisfying a long, long fast from you.

We understand each other’s need. Shameless. Raw. Unaffected.

And what I like, how in tune you are to me, how we communicate through the vibrations in our fingertips, our eyes, and the insanity of this selfish, consuming desire.

Urgent. Forgetting modesty, shedding self-consciousness, stripping myself bare for you.

When I finally feel you, connect to you, at all points, I vow never to let go, never to forsake you, never to forget you.

And even though you have spent your energy, spewed your lust relentlessly, you continue trying to please me. You pour your life into me and I am invigorated, awakened, senses both sharpened and intoxicated by the smell of your skin, your cum, and your cologne. And our maniacal lust.

The kind of smell I recognize when I see lovers passing by.

I unwrap the pink foil from the heart-shaped chocolate. And we kiss, chocolate fusing our mouths, champagne seeping onto our tongues, and the sugary, molten chocolate churns into bitter heartburn. But I do what I have wanted to do since I bought them. Eat them off of your body.

The last time. My passion burning . And yours flagged. It depresses you. Your body fails you despite the kisses, the cuddles, and the attention. Your apologies. So inadequate today, I hear you say, over and over again. You desire to please overwhelms me. As always.

You watch me dress. As always. Bit by bit. Admiration in your eyes. Playfulness in mine. Stay longer. But I know you don’t have the strength today.

And it is my last time. With you.

We were an odd couple

you and I

we helped each other

get on by

but now your needs

are satisfied

it’s time we both said goodbye

(Why can’t we be like Batbota and Nammour?)

PHOTO FROM:

Animal Kingdom’s Odd Couples

Smile. Everything will be alright

With the crescent moon, Aida wakes up with new intentions; fresh beginnings, and a keen desire to forget Dhirar. He’s not the first person or thing she thinks about this morning. He’s not the first person she speaks to anymore. The gaiety of her usual routine with him is over, but she has moved past moping. She can function somewhat normally. She has accepted that her battle is not unlike many other women who have loved and lost, and loved and lost, and the deeper the enamored state of their hearts, the longer they shed tears. In the end, it was not an unusual relationship in the way that it began nor in the way that it ended.

But love is fickle and her lover is tricky; unintentionally of course. He has stamped himself upon her whole existence in such a profound manner that even something simple like going about her toilette or cooking a meal cannot be done without remembering his words, his gestures, his voice, or his laugh. Sometimes she finds her self shaking her head, smiling, or lost in pensive thought at something she has remembered him saying or doing.

Aida flicks on the TV and happily finds that a movie is showing. She has wanted to see it for a long time. She decides to get comfortable and watch. The lover is gone to war, a Civil War, and he has grown a beard. Aida looks at the actor and studies his countenance. Something appears familiar about him. She experiences a yearning, unable to remove her eyes from the screen. She gazes at his beard, his mustache, his lips, his expressive eyes. Only when the movie is half over does the realization descend upon her and she gazes at the screen with shock. He looks like Dhirar. It is the same expression. She surely must be mad. She sees him everywhere and at the least expected times.

Aida walks slowly towards the large LCD screen. The actor’s face fills it, his eyes are pools of bright turquoise. She traces his eyebrows with her red nails and then her fingers caress the outline of his beard. The actor seems to embody Dhirar now, to look at her as she stands there in her momentary insanity. His eyes speak to her of a love so deep, that she suddenly finds herself gasping for breath. Aida spreads her arms to embrace the width of the cold screen and rubs her face against the actor’s, moving her lips slowly across his, feeling the warmth of his breath. Tears of frustration fill her eyes, black rivulets of tears mixed in kohl stream down her cheeks in straight, harsh lines. She showers the screen with kisses, and whispers “Why?” over and over. But the actor’s blue eyes are unseeing.

Aida throws herself back onto the long wide sofa and wraps herself in the velvety brown throw. The air conditioner has turned the room into an icy receptacle which is comforting. She realizes with annoyance that the screen is now blurry with her lipstick and lip gloss, where she had kissed it in a bereft frenzy.

Out of a sense of duty, she gets up to clean it. She goes into the bathroom to fetch a damp towel and there she is struck by her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are comically panda like, and her lips are swollen with only a hint of colour.

Aida bends over the sink and with the damp towel, begins to remove the traces of tears on her face. She begins slowly but works up to a vigorous scrub where she imagines changing her feelings towards Dhirar. She imagines opening her chest and removing her warm, tender heart and replacing it with pieces of the mirror before her. A mirror that is sharp, dangerous, and with the ability to reflect the intentions of all those who come to invade her space. A deflector to guard her against the whimsies of such Strawberry Moons.

I am frequently amused by the poll questions on the Al-Qabas internet edition.

The questions are almost always labeled For Men Only and it is interesting to see the poll results although I highly doubt the accuracy or its reflection of the general male population in Kuwait as a whole. I wonder if there are any playful women who vote on these polls and mess them up?

For a couple of days now the question has been:

For Men Only

Is your wife the girl of your dreams?

Out of 884 votes, 449 said yes their wife was the girl of their dreams.

435 voters said no, she was not!

Pretty close I say!

When I skim through the newspapers these days, I feel disgusted at all the seemingly false promises I see that are created for the benefit of female constituencies. Suddenly, everyone cares about women’s issues and problems and they will be the chivalrous knights who will ensure that everything will be alright for us once they get into parliament.

What irks me even more are the constant mobile messages and phone calls (both to the house and my personal mobile number) by the so called women’s committees working frantically to support the male candidates.

I did not receive one call asking me to support a female candidate. They were all for men. And many times I was called at an inappropriate moment but I still maintained a polite attitude.

Another thing, no one from these committees called my husband to rally his support (just the interminable mobile messages). Men have their own ways I suppose.

Yes, women are very important. Of utmost importance suddenly.

Wisen up, ladies and gentlemen.

I wish, only wish, we would make one united, wise decision not to vote for anyone who was at any time against women’s freedom.

It is always painful to go through old papers and unsorted belongings.

Sometimes we come across things we don’t even remember having.

I came across a print out of this poem and I can’t recall who gave it to me or whether I had printed it out myself. It was between some personal papers. I threw the paper away but want to keep the poem here for now:

It is a poem by Amy Lowell called Madonna of the Evening Flowers:

All day long I have been working
Now I am tired.
I call: “Where are you?”
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.

Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes,
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.

What does men’s choice of nightwear say about them?

According to:

The Times:

“The seven ages of male nightwear

Boy: as soon as you are out of nappies, your parents force you into “cute” pyjamas from The White Company.

Teen: just some pants and, if possible, nothing at all - to put your parents off coming into your room.

Student stud: nothing. Saves on washing and you are always ready for action (you wish).

Young lover: ironed boxer shorts. Easy enough to whip off, but roomy enough to disguise your enthusiasm.

Living in sinner: a T-shirt and cotton bottoms. You are not trying quite so hard now.

Married man: something warm, something comfortable. Does it really matter what you look like?

Elder statesman: Formal pyjamas. Your dad had it right all along. These really are very comfy. And you used to wear them as a boy”

What about a wizar?

Time to switch to something totally different.

Doesn’t it bug you to always hear commercials on TV about feminine protection, etc.. ? Women get defensive about such ads you know.

When I saw this site, called Bottoms Up, all I could think about was the protection for men’s private parts it offered…and of course the enhancement of their nether bodily parts.

It must also give a different feel to pinching that cute guy’s bottom.