Persian New Year, 2012… Part One… A Green Card marriage… or… not…

Published March 3, 2012 by patricialogan

A green card marriage and what that means to me… lol

I’ve been married to a Persian dude since 1985. Yes folks, I’m old, as my dear friends will attest. Not really, though I do feel old some days, but don’t we all. I confess this only to show how stupid and silly we are in our youth… making all wrong choices, and justifying them by saying, “dad, I ran out of gas on the 405 for the fourth week in a row, just because I want to make the trek to a call box in my mini skirt (I was quite the babe, back then) at 2 a.m. just to call you and have you tell me, “You are the most irresponsible 21 year old I have ever met! I’m not bringing you gas! I’ll be there in 20 minutes. What damn exit are you between?!!!”

Okay, so, my misspent youth… Well, I was 21 before I ever smoked a joint… and that was only because my friends goaded me into it on my birthday and then we all took off our tops and ran around their pool for half an hour, before the police were called. Yeah… *laughs* that was fun… NOT!

So, in the early 80’s when my gay soul-mate, Clay, a kid I grew up with, was out, messing around, not using condoms, I’d chide, “You gotta play safe, babe. You have to!” Needless to say, my best friend died of complications from AIDS in May, 1993, years later. I’d gone into nursing school to become an AIDS nurse by that time, but it was too late for Clay. In the 80’s we, heterosexuals had nothing to fear of the AIDS… we didn’t need condoms, as long as we had birth control and abortion clinics… right? NOT! But what the hell did we know? Our government was telling us that this was the “gay cancer” that we, unless we were a hemophiliac, were not to fear it, but oh, what the hell, play it safe anyway.

Well, I didn’t. In 1985, I met this nice looking Persian man… (never call them an Iranian) and was immediately attracted to the pink dolphin shorts… and… well, leaving that unsaid, dolphin shorts and Angel Flights, didn’t leave much to the imagination… back in the day. Of course, he had “THE MUSTACHE”. They all did and I thought I was getting my own, personal, Tom Sellek. SCORE!!! Very handsome, very little English, very horny! We were a match made in heaven…

Well, one day… we’d been “dating”, mostly in the back of his 1970’s era VW bug, which we parked on PCH at lifeguard tower number 7 in Huntington Beach and screwed all night… after only 6 weeks, he “proposed”! Wow! I had just turned 25, I had a great “career” in the diamond business and I was an up and coming superstar in my company! I was gorgeous, single, had an awesome set of “assets” and I was going places… then MUSTACHE MAN steps in and pops the question. I’m like, “are you crazy dude? I’ve known you six weeks?” He replied, and I’ll give him credit to my grave… “I need a green card or they’re gonna ship me back.” Then a conversation ensued about torture, and hanging people by their balls and such… and I still refused…

Fast forward, 2.5 months later, our conversation… Me: “Um, Azizam, (my love) remember when I said I wouldn’t marry you for a green card? Well, I’m pregnant! We’re getting married! Welcome to Amrika!” The rest is history… on a Saturday night, we took off, after a grueling conversation with my best friend Mary (who I still love today) about how stupid this was, how greedy he was, there were abortion services available, etc… Next setting: sitting down in my folks, Orange County residence…

ME: “Mom, we’re headed to Vegas to get married.”

MOM: But, I don’t even know what your last name is gonna be…

ME: (deep breath) Nafisi-Moghadam-Tehrani

MOM: Huh?

Dad stood up at that moment and grabbed Ali’s hand. “Well, congratulations, son, I hope you’ll do right by my girl!”

Two months later, after a 4:10 PM scheduled ceremony at “The Little Church of the West” the same church where my parents had been married in 1951, I was in an abortion clinic, starting my life over. For those women who’ve not been through this, (bless you) I can only say, this was the darkest day of my life. I was second trimester when I made the decision… and that was only after my Christian mother told me… “It’s okay.” So, to say, we started this on a rocky road, is an understatement!

Well, next time, I will tell you, (I learned this from my baby, Kage… keep them guessing) what happened next….

All of these posts lead up to Persian New Year, which is… March 20! “Aideh shoma mobarak! Azizameh!”

“The Slave’s Mask” Blurb and Excerpt

Published March 2, 2012 by patricialogan

“The Slave’s Mask” Blurb:

American blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running guns and other contraband between England and the Confederate States in 1863. He craves a young submissive man. Francois, a young prostitute, might be just the man to satisfy all of Anthony’s taboo desires.

Infamous American blackguard and blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running contraband between England and the Confederate States at the height of the Civil War in 1863. Anthony knows good brandy and fine cigars and his English clients appreciate him for it, but the captain also craves young submissive men. When he wins a young prostitute at an auction, Francois becomes his slave for seven days.

Francois has turned to prostitution to survive, but he is more than a whore. While most men who enjoy his favors treat him cruelly, he is stunned by this temporary owner’s kindness. Being a slave to this blue-eyed Master is no difficult task. Both men find that love may not be as elusive as they thought. Will the separation of oceans and time test their love or bring pain beyond bearing?

 

Excerpt:

The Tempest made its way through the oily waters of the Thames, preparing to drop anchor in the busy harbor. At her wheel stood the formidable figure of Captain Anthony Charles. He barked out orders to his less than presentable crew made up of cutthroats and pirates, men that fit the captain’s specific needs perfectly. Anthony felt the excitement of the crew as they scrambled to finish his orders so that they could have their shore leave. The long trip from America had exhausted them all and the captain knew they were anxious to blow off steam, find themselves a whore, and drink themselves sick.

Anthony’s taste in whores was quite different from his men and in the year 1863, they were quite taboo, not only here in England but in America as well. He was fortunate to know a purveyor or two of the boys he liked to use and he made certain to bring some of the finest rums from the Bahamas, Cuba, and Bermuda for his connections. He paid them handsomely and was rewarded with the highest quality in submissive young men. His cock hardened as he thought of the coming weeks, tasting the youth that he craved while loading his strong box with more gold and silver than he could carry.

Anthony was called a gentleman here in England and a Blockade Runner and blackguard by the Union troops. Trading arms and other luxuries with the Confederacy and in turn, highly priced cotton and tobacco with the English, had made Anthony Charles a very wealthy man in the two years since the beginning of the War Between the States. Though the Union had more than five hundred ships patrolling the waters around the southern states, waiting to catch just such a ship as the Tempest, Anthony had been able to avoid capture to date. Weighted down with cargo, it would have been difficult to outrun the Union fleet had he been spotted, and once within blockaded waters, he traveled by night with blackened sails, like his pirate ancestors. He knew that the Union was making progress and that the Confederacy could only hold out for so long under such an onslaught. As such, he always insisted on taking his payment in gold, knowing that the Confederate notes would someday soon be worthless.

Easing his ship into its prearranged berth, he called out to the crew to drop anchor. The sound of the anchor hitting the filthy water was like music to his ears. Within a few hours, his men would be whoring and Anthony would be visiting a very discreet brothel not far from the Tempest. Anthony Charles was a handsome man and he knew it. His coal black hair and light blue eyes were his very best features. He stood several inches above six feet and his shoulders were broad. The years of work on board various ships had shaped his body into a rock hard, solid mass of muscle. At thirty years of age, he enticed every woman that locked eyes with him. Alas, womanly company was not on the menu with Anthony Charles. He danced with them and dined with them to keep up appearances and was known as a rogue. But sleep with them, never. When they fluttered their pretty lashes at him and coyly smiled an invitation, he explained that he was engaged to be married and they sighed their disappointment, hating the one who’d captured his heart.

“Mr Baker,” Anthony called out. The smaller man swung his head around at the sound and hurried to his captain’s side. Anthony nearly smiled as his bosun jumped to obey his orders.

“Aye, Captain? Is there something you need, sir?” Anthony was pleased that his crew showed him instant respect. His dominant personality would have it no other way. He demanded a lot of his crew and they respected him for it. Of course, he also paid well for their loyalty.

“Set the watch, Mr Baker. Tell the men on the watch that they will be more than handsomely rewarded for their service. Ask for volunteers first but if need be, mete out their assignments.”

“Aye, Captain,” Mr Baker replied. “Was there anything else, sir?” Mr Baker waited patiently to hear his captain’s orders.

“I will be staying onshore this evening. I trust that you will enjoy yourself as well.” He landed a large palm on the bosun’s shoulder as the man’s face flushed with color.

“Aye, Captain,” he muttered, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “Have a good time, Captain.” Anthony managed a smile for his second in command as he prepared to return to his cabin.

“I intend to, Mr Baker.” At the thought of it, Anthony’s cock throbbed within the confines of his tightly cut britches. He hurried to turn his back on Mr Baker, so as not to show his excitement. Anthony was not a small man and he knew as his cock swelled, he would become obvious within moments. He brushed past more than one excited sailor on his way back to his large and well-appointed cabin. By the time he got to the large oak portal, he was nearly bursting from his arousal. The thought of having a young thing at his feet, blindfolded and wrists bound while Anthony fucked his willing mouth, had him ready to come.

Excerpt from “Gypsy Knight”

Published March 2, 2012 by patricialogan

Merry sounds of music drifted upward to Bree’s ears.

She sat at her dressing table, looking into the polished

oval mirror hanging above it. Reflected back to her was

a young woman in her prime, an extraordinary beauty

with gentle grace. She studied her face for a long

moment. Not bad, she thought, though too skinny. She

frowned.

 

“Why do ya look at yerself that way, milady?”

Honoria, her maid, asked. “Yer such a lovely wee lass.

And see how that fine handsome Sir Gavin has noticed

ya.” At Bree’s gasp, Honoria continued. “Why, he

could’nae take his eyes from ya today in the hall.”

 

“No, Honoria, don’t say such things,” Bree chided. “I

never did anything to gain his notice. The Holy Sisters

would have had me scrubbing stone floors for a month if

ever a man thought to look at me.”

Honoria chuckled but rushed to reassure her young

charge.

 

“Oh, I’m not saying ya had’nae done anything to

make him take notice of ya. Yer only too pretty a lass ta

ignore,” Honoria stated flatly in her lilting brogue.

“Now, up with ya.” She pinched both of Bree’s cheeks,

bringing color to them. “Go join in the party to celebrate

yer safe return home to yer clan.”

 

Bree loved the older woman like a mother. She rose

from the dressing table and ran small hands down her

long sleeved, yellow woolen gunna overdress. Under it

was a buck colored kirtle softly outlining her petite form

and over it, an intricate golden girdle set with pearls

completed her wardrobe. She wore an intricate necklace

of the finest woven gold with pearls around her narrow

shoulders. Her hair hung in gentle scented waves around

her.

 

Honoria padded up to her. “Here ya are, milady.” She

reached up and placed a wreath of violets and yellow

wild flowers on Bree’s head. Tears glistened in the

maid’s doe-like eyes. “Oh, milady, yer blessed mama

would be so proud of ya today.” She sniffed and wiped

her nose on her sleeve.

 

Bree, a smile touching her lips, leaned in and

squeezed the maid in a hug. As she left the chamber, the

smell of roasting quail, pheasant, and boar rose to her

nostrils. As she descended the stairs, she felt the eyes of

the hall on her. She looked up as she reached the bottom

landing, and Thomas rushed to her side. Bree hugged

him.

 

“Bree, listen to the minstrel. We’ve never had one

before.” The boy’s happy face gazed at her. The hall was

filled with people of every persuasion. Not only the

traveling minstrel troupe, but it seemed as though the

whole of the shire of Sheffield had turned out to

celebrate their lady’s return. In addition to the minstrels

filling the hall with music and merriment, there were

peasants, young and old, side by side with the bravest of

knights, tradesmen, shopkeepers and serving wenches

joining in the gaiety. Casks of ale were broken open and

skins of wine were freely dispersed amongst the crowd.

Bree hugged her brother again and laughed. She

couldn’t help but feel that a great weight had lifted from

her shoulders now that she was home.

 

As she made her way through the hall, she noticed

Gavin standing beside Malik near one of the long tables

in the hall. She took a moment to admire the man from

the curly top of his dark head to the twinkling golden

eyes as they traced her movements from the shadows

cast by the firelight. He was taller than she remembered,

with amazingly broad shoulders that tapered down to a

lean waist. He was clothed in a brown tunic which

tightly fit his muscled torso, closed with cross strings of

soft leather. Beneath the tunic were buck colored

chausses, the stockings snugly fitting along his hard

thighs. The fit that stretched across the hard maleness of

him was exquisite.

 

His sculpted face and his square jaw were closely

shaven, and his nose tapered perfectly between thick

black slashing eyebrows. She noticed that his eyelashes

were so long, that they curled at the ends. He was a

magnificent looking man.

 

Sir Robert swaggered up to her and, grasping her

around the waist, spun her into a drunken dance. She

gasped in surprise as she was passed down a row of

knights, each in turn spinning her into a short merry

dance in time with the music. She laughed heartily and

tried to keep up with their revelry. Finally, panting, she

bent and, placing her hands on her stomach, she

attempted to quit laughing long enough to catch her

breath. Thomas appeared before Bree and, taking up her

hand, spun her into another disjointed dance. She

laughed merrily at her brother’s antics.

 

Before long, more serving wenches appeared, bearing

trenchers laden with every kind of delicious food. There

were platters of roasted meats, eels, and fish in rich

sauces. In addition, trays of ripe fruits and steaming

loaves of newly-baked bread topped with freshly

churned butter joined the crocks of honey and filled the

long table. Everyone ate heartily.

 

***

Malik sat down at the long table and beckoned Gavin

with a wave of his hand and a broad grin.” Come, Gavin.

You drool as though you are a starving man; come and

feed on this.” Malik held out a small fruit to Gavin.

Breaking his own private reverie, Gavin tore his gaze

away from Bree’s pretty form. He stepped forward,

taking the fruit from Malik, and frowned at him.

 

“I should have left you where I found you, my painted

friend.” Gavin’s eyes twinkled as he chewed. He

referred to Malik’s smiling face, which was covered

with an intricate pattern of permanent marks in the

tradition of his ancestors.

 

“In my homeland, all men coming of age in my

village are tattooed with these marks. It is a tradition that

goes back to my father’s father.”

 

Gavin understood that this meant many, many more

generations, probably thousands of years.

 

“It gives a man vigor and potency with a woman,”

Malik boasted. He winked and grinned again, popping a

plump fruit into his mouth. “I have thirteen children,”

the giant said.

 

Gavin could well attest to Malik’s vigor. He laughed

out loud this time, a hearty rumble.