Flying to Riyadh

I’m in Saudi Arabia and today I flew from Jeddah to Riyadh on Saudi Airways. Nice flight, an hour and ten minutes in the air, comfortable aircraft. I had an aisle seat (I always have an aisle seat) and there was another woman by the window. The middle seat was empty. Because we were going to conservative Riyadh from (relatively) liberal Jeddah, we both wore the niqab (full face mask) as well as the abaya (robe) so that only our eyes were visible because if you don’t do that your life when you get off the plane will be made a misery. If you want to travel in someone else’s country, be polite and behave as they expect you to (unless it involves removing your panties, of course). Just before takeoff, a Saudi man aged 60+ got on. He was assigned the middle seat and the plane was full. He stood in the aisle, summoned a stewardess and said, “How can I sit there?” What he meant was, ‘If I sit between two women, I’ll be polluted.’
Okay, this is how it is in Saudi—or how it can be—but consider the implications:
1. I (and the other woman) were left in no doubt that our presence was polluting to men. How do you think we felt about that?
2. This man will be married. How must it be for his wife and daughters to know that they are pollutants in his life?
I’d like to make it clear that not all Saudi men are like this—on balance they’d have been more likely to take the seat and even attempt to chat to us (which they are not supposed to do) and I might quite possibly have been obliged gently to remove a hand that had ‘accidentally’ strayed on to my thigh*. But, still, it was not an enjoyable experience.
*Some time ago, an Emirati man told me he hankered for the days before pantyhose, when a hand on a woman’s thigh would feel the excitement of a suspender like a little knob. I gave him a kind smile. What else could I do?

We’re getting addresses!

In common with most Middle Eastern countries, Abu Dhabi doesn’t have street addresses. That can be a bugger when you want someone to courier something to you from Europe or The States–DHL and their like hate it when they’re asked to deliver something and the only address you can offer is something like “Fourth Floor, The Abdul ben Jaffar Building, opposite the Bin Khaled Mall on the corner with the airport road”. It makes perfect sense to us and if the courier asked their local representative they’d find it makes perfect sense to them–but they don’t do that and they refuse to collect, so we’re reduced to inventing an address. As long as we make sure our phone number is on the package, everything proceeds without difficulty.
But now we’re going to have “proper” addresses, just like downtown (Toronto). Not till the year after next–but we’ll have them.
Maybe DHL will stop looking down their noses at us then.

The Transformation of David, a $0.99 short by S F Hopkins

This was an interesting story for me to write—and it’s selling regularly, which suggests that it’s also an interesting story for people to read. Mandrill Press likes books that are “on the edge” and I have a particular interest in those places on the masculine/feminine continuum that get less attention. Not many people are really “all man” or “all woman”, hard though some try to appear to be one or other of those things. Most are somewhere in between—and some men are very close to the female half of the spectrum, while some women are just a fraction away from the male. That was what interested me when I wrote this story: the way in which someone removed from their accustomed place on the male/female curve and set down further along it might not respond only with revulsion. Emails I’ve received suggest that most of Transformation’s readers are men, and I find that slightly disappointing—I’d have thought there was something here for women, too.
Anyways, here is where you can find it.

This is what it’s about:
The Chakin teach Andrew Matthews how to transfer people between bodies. Breaking a solemn promise, he turns his daughter, Lottie into David Walters in order to seize David’s fortune–and, along the way, enjoy the carnal pleasures of the beautiful female body that was forbidden him. The Chakin cross the seas to release David from his bondage as a woman, and David is grateful to them…but the gratitude is not total. Has David, in becoming a man once more, lost more than he gains?

And here is an extract, which should allow you to decide whether you’d enjoy this book or wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole:
It was a wicked thing they had done to him. He knew that. Wicked. As he lay on his front in this beautiful female body that he had been trapped into, skirt raised to his waist, a hand playing gently over his bottom, he knew that he should hate the person who had done this. She sat on the bed beside him in the body of the young man he had so recently been, and she toyed with him. Through the soft silk of his panties her thumb traced the space between his firmly rounded bottom cheeks. Her hand pressed on, down, down, until the tips of her fingers grazed the lips of his sex. Lips that he knew were moist with longing. A sex that ached to be entered once again.
Her head moved down, close to his own. She nibbled the lobe of his ear; she kissed him gently on the back of his neck. Her other hand was now in play, sliding beneath the waistband of his panties. ‘You want me, don’t you,’ she whispered. ‘You want to be fucked again. Turn over, my little darling. Let me give you what you crave.’
He rolled onto his back. Her hand now was right inside his panties, drifting over the smooth skin of his stomach, stroking where the fine hair had once been until she shaved it off, sliding down between the legs he opened wide to help her debauch him. ‘That’s it, my sweet,’ she murmured. ‘Open for me.’ She slipped a finger into his yearning sex, finding with her thumb the little nubbin, stroking it erect. He put his arms on her shoulders, reaching upwards, looking for a kiss. She obliged, pressing her lips against his, pushing her tongue into his mouth, searching for his own.
He lifted his bottom as she took down his panties and threw them aside. He lay, legs splayed, knees raised as she undressed without haste. Then with her knees she pressed his thighs further apart. Her cock rested for a moment on the moist lips of his sex. Then she pushed forward and he, helpless in the hands of one bigger and stronger than him; helpless also in his overwhelming need; was filled once more. She rode him, that handsome cock driving furiously in and out of his cunt, whipping him on towards his climax, his mind empty now of anything but this, on and on until the sudden, devastating leap over the waterfall into some unknown, unnameable nirvana, and he collapsed beneath her as she pumped her seed—his seed—deep into his honeyed cavern.
He was a man, desexed and used like a woman. Everything he had been raised to do and to be had been taken from him. He should hate the person who had done this to him.
So why did he feel this aching, remorseless need?

%d bloggers like this: