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| Blogs > titsandsmarts > StillLife (in an old girl yet) |
Embarrassing Moments #2 (aka Better in a Burka)
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Embarrassing Moments #2 (aka Better in a Burka) I realised last night, as I continued to ponder my New Year's Resolutions, that today is my first blogiversary. Oy, it's been a hell of a year... I am sure that written on my gravestone will be "it wasn't supposed to turn out like that" (that or "it seemed like a good idea at the time"): but these elements of unpredictability (or lack of foresight, if you're feeling uncharitable!) sometimes have their upside. I am in the process of getting organised to begin my next round of travels - tomorrow, the dizzy depths of south (or is it west?) Yorkshire, and then off back to the 'Stan via Istanbul before ending up in my home county for a few days of respite before the madness begins again. I have already dropped one of the ceramic plates from my vest on my foot (hurt like buggery), failed to find my dictaphone (and I *know* that bugger's in here somewhere) and caught my finger on the iron whilst ironing my burka. And who the hell irons a burka? Especially when it is going to spend several days folded up under my family's Christmas presents? This is clearly a slippery slope - next I'll turn into the sort of women who irons her underwear. I was distracted, though - just unpacking my burka made me think of all the adventures I've had wearing it... This is by no means intended to belittle the experiences the women who are compelled to wear this piece of clothing, or to make light of the very serious issues surrounding women's rights in AfPak. But this is not that sort of blog. And personally, I have always loved my burka - no doubt because I don't have to wear it every day for the rest of my life when I need to be hidden from male gaze (OK - enough: you get the point - a problematic piece of clothing in a lot of ways, but totally invaluable for a foreign woman in the region, and certainly not an item of clothing I ever wear anywhere else etc etc Enough disclaiming!). I first went to the region long before most people had heard of al Qaeda, at a time when the wearing of the burka had been made compulsory by the Taliban. As a (very) young post-grad, doing fieldwork for my thesis as best as I could, initially, I hated the bloody thing. I was irritated enough by most of the Middle East, where work had to be carried out in long sleeves and long trousers - in a Middle Eastern summer, let me tell you that's a special form of hell. Trying to do the same work in an Afghan summer was similar, only slightly worse. There's a lot you can do in a burka. The kind of work I was engaged in at the time wasn't any of those things. I saw it as an indigo cage, specifically aimed at preventing me from getting on with things. However, once I'd accepted the limitations, and finished swearing over not being able to do what I had wanted, I realised it also brought a form of freedom. As a young, blonde (and looking back now at the photos, hot - wow, why do we only realise these things too late? If I could grab my twenty-something self, give her a good shake and a firm talking to, how the course of history might have been different... I'd probably have had only a tenth of the lovers, but I'd have spent a hell of a lot more time in a bikini!) woman, used to working in the Middle East, I was accustomed to various forms of male attention - very little of it positive. There were the hisses (yup, because nothing makes me think, oh yes, I'll have some of that: you sucking your teeth at me - total turn on), the leers, the lewd remarks, the pinches, the comments (amazing how responding, "Would you let someone speak to your sister like that?" had an instant deflating effect...) - not to mention the flashers and the wankers (because honestly, I've just told you politely I don't need a lift - but if you get your cock out and start jerking off, I am totally going to change my mind). That stuff gets old really quickly. Like after about ten seconds. But suddenly, I was more or less invisible. I might not be able to do what I wanted, exactly - but I could do a whole lot more, uninterrupted and often unseen. My indigo shuttlecock allowed me to do more and see more than I ever could have without it. I could pass, if I wanted to - and sometimes I did. When I returned after the invasion, now with a different career and for different reasons, I embraced my burka again. They were no longer compulsory - but they were still bloody convenient. You can get by, you can pass - and I found I could see and hear things far more easily than other western colleagues as a result. By far and away the best thing, though, is that, when it's hot as hell in an Afghan summer, you can wear very little under it  It's shady, cool - and if you have yours made long at the front as well, all concealing: mine touch the ground at the back and come just to the tops of my feet in front. There are no flies on me (literally - it keeps the flies off too). So I would happily go off to work in the mornings wearing a bra, a pair of stout boots and a smile, and be cool and comfy all day long (unless there was a chance I would be somewhere I would be expected to remove it - clearly, that could have caused complications...) There's something about being almost naked in public that always feels delightfully naughty, and I loved it.However, my secret didn't last all that long. I was in close quarters at one stage with one of my CPP team, and later that night, he sidled over mentioned that when I had squeezed past him, it didn't seem like I was wearing an awful lot. I tried to pass it off with a joke about being too close and personal, but the next few days, I noticed he kept a closer eye on me than normal, clearly trying to work out if what he suspected was true. He was transferred to someone else the following week, and it was a little while before our paths crossed again, but when they did, he appeared over my shoulder as I was unlocking the door to my room, bundled me in, and had his hands under my burka faster than a ferret down a pair of trousers. His large hands running over my sweat-slicked body felt incredibly arousing, and as he got further up and realised I was having a commando day, my legs spread of their own accord. He dropped to his knees, holding my burka out of the way, and looked intensely at my pussy. We still hadn't spoken a word, but those few seconds were enough to leave me soaking, and as he parted my lips and leaned forward, I moaned in anticipation of feeling his mouth on me. It took about three seconds of his tongue moving on my clit to make me explode, but he didn't do the usual male trick of stopping immediately: no, he kept me there, pinned to the wall by his mouth, and spent the next three quarters of an hour licking, sucking, nibbling and teasing. Even to this day, that was the most incredible oral sex I have ever had. He ate me a lot - but that first time was the most intense and incredible. I just kept coming and coming - whether he was running his tongue the length of my slit, swirling and sucking on my clit or tongue-fucking me hard, it would only take half a minute and I would explode again. By the end, my legs wouldn't hold me up any more, and I was slumped against the wall, moaning incoherently whilst he held me up with his mouth. That was absolutely one of the hottest encounters of my life. When he finally peeled my burka all the way up, and folded my into him for a kiss, I nearly melted all over again. We had a lot of burka sex that summer: sitting on his lap, rocking back and forth; on my back, with my legs wrapped round him, folding him in to the indigo tent, both of us covered in billowing fabric; bending over the kitchen counter, with the back of my burka flicked up; my burka still tied but flicked back over my head, with my legs round his neck; on my knees, working his cock with my hands and lips and my sight of him obscured by the gauze ... It was intimate and anonymous at the same time, and incredibly intense. We couldn't get enough of each other, but the times we had lazy Sunday morning sex, or sleepy middle-of-the-night loving, or ordinary-people-in-extraordinary-situations run-of-the-mill sex never compared to the intensity of burka sex - snatched in an unexpected lunch-break, or in the hours after work. It was amazing. Until the day I decided to go to work in a corset, as I had planned a special evening. I love corsets. I wear them a lot. They're incredibly comfortable, especially when you have a considerable<b> rack </font></b>to heave around. And frankly, who doesn't look great with their waist nipped in, even if they are lacking in boobage? In honour of what I had planned, I forewent my usual shit-kickers, and wore a simple pair of flats, to show off the fact that - for once - I was wearing stockings. And to complete the look - of course, a thong. (Now I shudder. What was I thinking? A thong in that environment? Lord only knows how I didn't get a UTI... unhygienic things - just asking for a transfer of bacteria: OK, enough!) All day I was floating round, feeling hot as hell (in a good way), loving the swish of indigo against the silk of my corset and the slickness of the silk on my legs. But mann trakht und Gott lakht: I was held up in the market, then we had a flat and by the time I got home, I was seriously late and horny as hell as I opened the door and pirouetted into the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him sitting on the sofa, so I continued pirouetting, and caught the skirt of my burka in my hands as I twisted in front of him. A good lap dancer knows the art of the delayed reveal. I am not a good lap dancer. And I was late. And horny. So very quickly as I spun round, I'd peeled my burka up and over, and finshed with my back to him, my arse beautifully highlighted by my thong, standing on tiptoe to show off my legs - oh yes, and bent over at the waist, with my legs spread. As I looked over my shoulder with a come hither expression, I realised that it wasn't my gentleman friend, but the CPP team leader who now had a perfectly pouty vision of my pussy. Memo to self: remember when you are staying somewhere where all keys are interchangeable that people might wait for you inside in the a/c when it's 135 in the shade. And that you might be really late, but even so, it's not a given that you are last to the party. |
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Ah, they do make them in an H cup, you know *Sigh* I miss the bikini days. Greenpeace haven't tried to return me to the deep for years now  (Welcome to my blog also - thanks for stopping by and commenting )
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