Dreamscapes: First Forbidden Kisses
When I was a teenager I had so many
friends. I befriended almost everybody in my neighborhood-- Bad
guys, good guys, animals, but not girls. I couldnt have
a girlfriend. Romance in Morocco was forbidden at that time, it
it was there, but it was done under the table, so to speak. I had never
seen a couple kissing each other in the street or even holding hands.
I had never seen my dad and my mom romancing each other, or touching
each other, even though they have nine children. That alone shows you
how sex was secretly done in Morocco. You cant hold hands with
a girl in the streets, you cant kiss a girl, and you cant
even look at a girl for a long time. If you did look at her and somebody
saw you, you would be in a big trouble. People would think you are up
to something bad. On the contrary, if somehow you broke the barrier
and had sex with a girl and your friends knew about it, everything would
change. You would become a big shot. And if the news propagated to other
neighborhoods, everybody would admire you and look up to you and try
to be your friend.
In fact, you cant do anything with a girl. You can only look at
her and smile to her and thats about it. If you want to have sex
with a girl, you need to have it in your dreams or in your imagination.
It was impossible for me to dream having sex because I never had sex
in reality and my body wouldnt know what to do in a dream. Sometimes
I would dream of a girl trying to have sex with me and as soon as she
would take off her clothes and come closer to me I would wake up. I
get so mad. I would try to go back to sleep right away so I can have
sex in my dream, but when I go back to sleep I would dream of something
else that has nothing to do with sex. I would dream of donkeys or maybe
my mom washing dishes or something stupid like that. I think I couldnt
have sex in my dreams because I hadnt experienced it in real life.
I could only have sex in my imagination.
The Moroccan girls at that time were also shy. They were probably in
the same situation I was in. They wouldnt do anything with you.
If they liked you they would only look at you through the window and
smile at you. If they didnt like you they would shut the window
and go somewhere else in the house. I had this girl that looked at me
all the time, but I couldnt talk to her because she would look
at me only through a high window. When she gets out of her house she
would either walk with her sister to the grocery store, or ride with
her dad on his motorbike to school.
One day a sexy girl came up to our house to visit my sister. She was
tall and strong and had these humongous breasts, even though she was
only a teenager. I had this small room in our house and I invited her
to come to that room and when she came I gave her a lousy kiss. The
kiss was the lousiest you ever saw. My teeth hit her teeth and I leaned
on her and she leaned back scared and confused. She was feeling uncomfortable
and I was trying to kiss her in spite of that feeling. That was the
lousiest kiss in the whole world. I am not proud of that kiss. It was
very sad because after that kiss I left the country, not because of
the kiss, but because I was bored of life in Morocco.
had a friend whose brother lived in Stockholm, Sweden. My friend,
Mufti, and I bought our train tickets to use from Spain to Sweden
and we took the bus from Rabat to Ceuta, a city in Morocco that
belongs to Spain. I have no idea why Spain owns that city even though
it is a part of Morocco. The same way I have no idea why Britain
owns Gibraltar even though it is a part of Spain. I guess that was
our stupid history. We, humans, have a very stupid history. Insects
have better history than we do, I guess. Humanity shouldnt
be proud of its history because all of us did so many stupid things
in the past. We, the Arabs, for example, invaded all of North Africa.
My ancestors had no rights coming in here from the Red sea and invading
not to get out of the subject, that was the first time I saw the north
of Morocco even though I was born right there, somewhere nearby. We
got to the border of the Spanish territory and one of the Spanish border-officer
said to me in Spanish, "proko prokito" something like that.
I had no idea what he was talking about. He thought I had drugs or something.
I didnt understand the officer; I kept on looking at him like
a deer in the headlights, or in my case, like a camel in the candle
lights. The Spanish officer pointed to my pants and said again in a
tense Spanish, "prokito preky proko pepe" something like that,
I have no idea. I still didnt understand what he was talking about.
After a few prokos and prekes and pepes I finally understood that he
wanted me to take off my pants. I took off my pants and he crouched
down and looked up at my sexy equipment and saw that I had no drugs
down there between my legs. "Praka preke prok prok" he told
me and I quickly pulled my pants up. Thats how Spanish sounded
to me at that time when I was a teenager. That was my first encounter
with the Spanish people. To me they were like Moroccans. They talked
loud and have bad teeth and they talk through people. Somebody would
be standing between two Spanish people and these people would be talking
to each other through that person like if he was made of air.
Finally my friend and I took the boat to mainland Spain and I threw
up on the deck because the sea was rough and that was my first time
riding a boat. At that time when I was a teenager, everything I did
was something I had never done before. Everything was new to me. We
crossed Spain and I didnt like it because it was like Morocco.
Very sunny, and people talk very loud, like I said before. I liked the
Spanish girls, though. The Spanish girls were sexy. Some of them had
olive skin and dark eyes and had beautiful hair. To me they were much
beautiful than the Moroccan girls. I could be wrong because I am a Moroccan
and the Spanish girls were somewhat exotic to me. I knew there were
some Moroccan girls that were very beautiful, but I didnt think
there many around.
Finally we got to France. France was dark and gloomy, and the sky was
gray on that day. It reminded me of a movie I saw about World War II.
I walked down some empty streets and pictured the German soldiers walking
down stiffly, with their boots and helmets and pink faces. I said to
myself what am I doing here in this country? I worried a little but
then I said to myself, "What the heck!"
The French people looked different from the Spanish. They had dark hair
like the Spanish, but had very white skin. Their skin was lighter compared
to the Spanish. The French girls were ugly in detail and yet perversely
beautiful. The French men were small and mean. Many French men were
smaller than I was, even though I grew up in a third world country,
eating only vegetables, bread, and drinking mint tea. When we got deep
into France, we got hungry and my friend and I went to a bakery to buy
bread. As we started touching it, to see if it was fresh, the woman
at the shop ordered us to buy it. She was mean and old and had plenty
of make up on. We had to buy all the bread we had touched and we had
touched plenty of bread. We ended up buying all that bread. As we walked
for a while down the streets of Paris a police car stopped and two officers
came out. They came to us and asked us for our passports. They didnt
even say Bonjour or anything like that. We didnt do anything;
we just looked poor foreigners and they wanted to stop us. One of the
police officers went to his car with our poor green passports and pushed
some buttons on the dashboard of his fancy police car and came back
to us and gave us our passport and off we went. Since that day, I never
liked France. I will never go to France again even though I am older
now and I have plenty of money. I tried to get out of France right away.
My friend, Mufti, and I climbed up the train and moved up north to Germany.
Germany looked clean and more industrious compared to France. The German
people looked totally different from the French and the Spanish. They
were bigger and they hardly talked to each other. They were stiff. There
were many factories along the train tracks and the German people in
the train were sitting like toys would sit on your shelf; they hardly
moved. We didnt know anybody to visit in Germany and we werent
going to change the train because our train was supposed to go all the
way up to Sweden. The train was just passing through Germany dropping
and picking up people. I decided to touch the German ground, so when
the train stopped for a while at a station, I jumped from the train
onto the ground and kept on jumping like a crazed kid.
Finally we got to Denmark. Denmark was like Germany. I couldnt
tell the difference. You should remember that I was a teenager and my
attention to detail was almost non existent. So dont get mad at
me for saying that there was no difference between Denmark and Germany.
Of course, there has got to be some difference.
Crossing from Denmark to Sweden, our train got detached, car by car,
and was chained to the rails of the floor of the ship. And the boat
took us and our train to Sweden. As we got there, the train got re-attached
again and took us to the land of the Scandinavian people. Sweden was
beautiful. It felt like walking into a postcard. People were friendly
and beautiful, almost all of them. I couldnt find an ugly Swedish
person around even though each society has its share of ugly people.
The Swedish people were also nice. If they see me walking they say,
Hey, and I would say Hey back to them and smile, pretending to be a
nice guy. After I stayed in Stockholm for one day or two and said many
heys, I decided to visit a friend in Sandviken, a small town up north
of Sweden. I was somewhat stupid because when I got to Sandviken I found
out that my friend had moved to another small town called, Gavle, which
was many miles north east of Sandviken. Since Gavle wasnt that
far, I thought, I decided to walk to it instead of taking the train.
I found myself a big staff nearby in the woods and walked like Moses
After I walked a couple of miles north I found myself alone, walking
in a strange country. A car stopped by and a guy inside asked me if
I needed a ride. I said no, thank you, and the guy drove away, wondering
who I was and why I was walking alone with that staff in my hand. The
ground beneath me was covered with coarse grass torn everywhere by the
upheavals of fallen birch trees. In facts, the land looked like that
of Minnesota where I now live. There were a few lakes along the highway
and many dark forests out beyond the clearings. After an hour or so,
I saw a deer sign by the highway and I got scared. I had never seen
a deer sign in Morocco. I was so scared because I thought a herd of
deer or caribou might charge out from the woods into my direction and
plough me through in a stampede. I started to walk fast, almost running,
looking around me like if I was chased by a ghost. I was sweating now
but from something else besides the sun. I was also afraid that some
bears might come out of the woods and gore me with their crisped claws.
I could probably manage black bears, but grizzly bears, you have to
be a zoo scientist to know how to survive their attack.
The staff started to hurt my hand and it became so heavy for me to carry,
so I threw the sucker in a ditch and pressed on forward towards Gavle.
I was wet with sweat and tired deep into my bones. The sun started to
move away from the clearing of the sky and the light of day began to
dim. I thought, what happened if Gavle didnt exist and my friends
in Stockholm were just lying to me so that I can get lost in the dark
woods and get eaten by grizzly bears or a flock of hawks. I said to
myself I didnt want to die in Sweden. I wanted to die closer to
home, in sunny poor Morocco. I wanted to die on the ground where I was
born. I became even more scared when I looked ahead of me and all I
saw were the woods and the rolling hills and the snaky lonesome highway.
I didnt want to walk back to Sandviken because I felt that I had
walked more than half the distance to Gavle. Even though I was scared
and tired, I pressed on and kept on walking along the highway into the
approaching darkness. After a mile or two I saw some houses and thats
when I began to feel safe. I said if something came up, or I was attacked
by a bear or a flock of hawks, I would just run to these houses and
seek help. Luckily, after a mile or two, I made a turn with the highway
and I began to see the reflected glare of the lights of Gavle. I was
happy, tired, and scared all at the same time.
When I got to Gavle, I looked for my friends house in the lights
of the street until I found it. I knocked on the door but nobody answered
the door. I kept on knocking until a Swedish neighbor opened up his
door and looked at me like if I was from another planet. I was all worn
out and had dirty clothes and scummy, curly hair, and yellow teeth,
"Do you know if Mustapha lives here?" I asked in broken English.
"He lives here, ya, but he is out of town."
"What?" I asked. "Where did he go?"
"I dont know," the neighbor said. "All I know is
hes out of town."
I walked down and out of the building and began to think about a place
to sleep. I had a little money. I couldnt even afford staying
one night in a hotel. I walked to the back of the building and searched
for my friends window. I was lucky because the window was cracked
open. My friend lived on the second floor and it was easy to monkey
up to the window and crawl in. I went straight to the refrigerator and
opened the door. The fridge was packed with Swedish food; food to last
me for two weeks at least.
I ate plenty of food and took a bath and brushed my teeth and went to
sleep like a baby. My friend didnt show up at all. I was glad
he left his window open, otherwise I would have become a homeless, at
least for a while, until I found my way back to Morocco. The next day
I spent the whole day thinking about what to do in that town. It looked
like people didnt live in that town. Whenever I looked through
the window I saw nobody walking in the street. There were no kids playing
in the street. I thought maybe Swedish people didnt procreate.
Occasionally you hear a car drove by. When the night came I put on some
of my friends fancy clothes and got out the door. I guessed I
would look sexy for Swedish girls. I was old enough to have lost the
prominent tummy of childhood and not old enough to have the muscles
of a grown up man. I followed the density of street lights until I got
to downtown. And there I found many young people walking. Swedish girls
were beautiful. They all looked the same and they all looked beautiful.
They had nice outfits and they had long blond hair and they were so
clean. Their teeth were white and their eyes were so blue and their
skin was so pink and they smiled when they looked at you. They looked
like Barbie dolls, almost all of them. Occasionally you would see a
fat girl, and even that fat girl has a beautiful face and looked sexy.
I walked by a Disco and said why not get in there and check it out.
I had never drank alcohol and the bartender deposited a Swedish beer
on the counter in front of me. I tasted it and it tasted like pee, even
though I had never tasted pee before. Two blond girls at a corner were
looking at me. In facts everybody at the bar had blond hair, I was the
only one who had curly black hair. I looked like an alien and I was
an alien, for sure. I felt so happy when I knew those two girls looking
at me. I said to myself what should I do. I looked at them and smiled.
They smiled back to me sending me plenty of signals to come and talk
to them, but my radars were so jammed and I was too shy to make any
move. I just kept on looking at them and smiling to them like a psycho
kid. Finally they realized that I would never go and talk to them and
they came up to me instead.
They started talking to me in nice sounding English and I could see
their red lips move with the words they spoke, could see their clean
straight teeth and their sparkling blue eyes full of energy and desire
for exploration. Their eyes were studying me like the eyes of some tiger
whose intension was to devour me alive. They were of the same height
and they were both sexy and they wear very nice, clean clothes. They
were way different from Moroccan girls even though I had never experienced
myself with one. The two girls talked to each other in Swedish and then
they turned their head to look at me at the same time and they asked
me to go outside with them. I said sure why not and the three of us
walked outside to the darkness of the night. It started to rain but
slightly. It was strange for me because it hardly rained during the
summer in Morocco. One of the girls opened up an umbrella and the three
of us walked around the block side by side, me in the middle, our bodies
almost touching, like if we had been friends for thousands of years.
We got to a dark alley next to some stairs that went down into some
deep dark space. One girl told the other in Swedish something like,
"Voom Va goolum voom" and the other said good bye to me and
left. We were now just two of us, a Moroccan virgin who had never touched
a girl in his entire life and a Swedish girl who had probably slept
with ten boys in high school. I was so nervous; I didnt know what
to do or what to say. The girl looked at me like if she had been in
love with me for thousands of years, and I looked at her like is she
was the Swedish goddess of love and romance. We both kissed. I was a
very bad kisser. I had no experience or whatsoever in kissing. I started
kissing her on the places where there is no pleasure. I was kissing
her on the forehead and the chin and she was shooting for my mouth.
Her tongue was wiggling in my mouth like a warm, wet snake. She was
in control and I was just following her orders like a baby duck would
follow his mom. She knew exactly what to do and she did everything accordingly.
After she finished sucking my face, she held my hand with her delicate
hand and took me down the stairs into the deep, dark space.
© Sidi Cherkawi Benzahra
December 3, 2003
with Hoofed Feet
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