Date: Mon, 15 Mar 2010 01:30:39 -0400
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Isfahan

				Isfahan
			 	The Fifteenth Tale of the Daphne Boy
				by George Gauthier

Author's Note: This is a tale of an eternally youthful boy named Alexander,
here called Iskander, and those he encounters in the Near East during the
late XIth century AD.

This is the fifteenth in a series of tales about an undying youth named
Alexander or Alex in this story. The other stories in this series so far
are 'Antebellum', set in the American South just before the Civil War,
'Daphne Boy', set in Roman Syria, 'El Dorado', about the conquistadors,
'The Erythraean Sea', set in Arabia just before the rise of Islam, 'Stupor
Mundi', about the Sixth Crusade, 'Ferghana', a tale of the Silk Road in
Central Asia, 'Zulu' set mostly in Southern Africa during the Anglo-Zulu
War, 'Sol Invictus' set in the Roman Empire during the reign of the
dissolute androgynous and sexually insatiable gay emperor Elagabalus
'Reniassance' set in Italy around 1500, 'Gupta' set during the Golden Age
in India in the century AD, 'Palmyra' set during the crisis of the IIIrd
century that nearly destroyed the Roman Empire, 'Tobago', set in the
Caribbean and South America during the middle of the XVIIth century, 'The
Apostate' set during the age of the Romand Emperor Julian the Apostate in
the mid IVth century, and 'Marlowe' set in Elizabethan London.

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body, of consensual and
non-consenual sexual activity between adult males, and considerable
non-sexual violence including combat. If any of this would offend a reader,
read no further. This is not intended for persons younger than an age where
they may freely and legally select their reading matter in whatever
jurisdiction applies. It is offered for entertainment. If it manages to
both intrigue and to provoke prurient interest, it will have succeeded in
its aim.

It is as historically accurate in its setting as I could make it, with only
minor poetic license for the sake of the story. This tale, after all, is
fiction. It is not a historical monograph. Only the the rulers mentioned
are real people. The rest of the characters are not intended to resemble
any actual person living or dead.

Readers who like these stories might want to try my 'Jungle Boy' series of
tales in a modern setting, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section of the
archive. See also my series 'Naked Prey' in the historical section, my 'Mer
Boy' series in Gay/Beginnings, and the 'Track and Field' series in
Gay/College. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors
on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com.

			Chapter 1. Isfahan 1073

"Over here, wine boy. Some more of the Shiraz red, if you please."

I bowed my head and walked across the tavern to fill the cup held out by
the customer, a tall lean dark-haired man in flowing robes and turban. He
had a nasty looking scar on his left cheek, presumably from a sword.  He
leered at me as I approached his table dressed only in filmy houri boy
pants, hung so low on my hips you could look down my cleavage, much like
the sagger boys of today. For obvious reasons, wine boys did not observe
traditional Muslim standards of modesty in dress. Actually more than once,
right there in the common room, a customer had yanked my pants down to my
ankles to get a preview of my charms.

"Iskander, isn't it?" he asked, unsure of my name but sure of his
attraction to me.

"What a pretty little thing you are. Tell me boy, you are what, fifteen?"

I nodded though the truth was that I was closer to fifteen centuries than
that many years. I was born in the late second century BC in southern
Germany. For reasons I have never understood, I had stopped growing and
aging some months after reaching my seventeenth birthday. Even after more
than thirteen hundred years, I had the body and the smooth beardless visage
of a stripling, a youth in his teens. With my fawn-like build, hairless
body, and delicate, almost elfin features, I could easily pass for
fifteen. That was what the customer preferred and what my master had bid me
to tell customers who asked my age.

I cannot explain my eternal youthfulness. It just happened. I can only
guess there was something genetic at work, a benign mutation, I
suppose. Certainly there had been no encounter with a sorcerer nor a pact
signed in blood with eldritch powers.

The customer's hand caressed my chest, fingering the gold rings that
pierced my nipples, identical to those through my earlobes. I could feel
the calluses on his hand from years of practice with a sword. His rough
hand roam down my scalloped belly and even reached through the nearly sheer
fabric to cup my genitals. Then he shifted his hand to my ass, slipping it
under the waistband of my pants to caress and squeeze my butt
cheeks. Finished with his tactile assessment, he gave a nod to my master
Barash confirming my original impression. No doubt my owner would soon send
me upstairs to entertain the customer with my sweet body.

I was working as a wine boy cum whore in Isfahan, capital of the Great
Seljuk Empire, a rapidly rising Muslim state that had crushed the Christian
Byzantine Army nearly two years before at Manzikert, which ultimately
resulted in my capture at the city of Tarsus where I had settled into a
pleasant and prosperous existence as a merchant. It was my second sojourn
in that city over the centuries.

I had thought myself safe in Tarsus, far from the frontier. Since the days
of Basil the Bulgar Slayer a half century earlier, it had seemed that Rome,
as the Byzantines styled their Greek speaking empire, had finally achieved
a certain strategic position well nigh unto unshakable against the Muslims,
i.e. the Arabs. Their reinvigorated state encompassed the entire Balkan
Peninsula and Anatolia east to Persia with outlying territories in Italy
and the Crimea.

I had not fully realized the rot that had set in the Byzantine state during
the last fifty years: the neglect of the old militia army and the reliance
on mercenaries, the abuses of power of the landed magnates that allowed
them to withdraw their lands from the tax rolls, the self-dealing of the
civilian officialdom. Also, I had not counted on the irruption of the Turks
from Central Asia. Nor could I have known that the Byzantine Emperor would
fall for the hoary tactic of a feigned retreat at Manzikert and send his
heavy cavalry pell mell after light cavalry without the support of light
infantry, contrary to all Byzantine military doctrine. He lost the flower
of his army in the catastrophe including the cadre that could have trained
new soldiers to replace those lost in that battle.

When the Seljuk Turks captured the city of Tarsus, I was enslaved for my
deadly effectiveness with my blades while serving in the city militia. My
blond hair streaming under my round metal coif had become a familiar and
dread sight to the hordes assaulting our walls. With my centuries of
training, practice, and experience allied to my speed and agility, I was
deadly with bow and sword. But ultimately the odds were too great. The city
eventually surrendered on terms which included turning "that little blond
devil from the walls" over to the the Seljuk commander as his personal
trophy.

I expected to be slain outright, but the Turkish commander decided he would
rather keep me as a captive and bed mate than turn me into a cold
corpse. He was the first of many victorious Seljuks to taste my
charms. After a long night of carnal delight, he announced to his army that
I was to be shared with his soldiers and passed around for their
delectation. Each other night, anywhere from a dozen to a score of soldiers
chosen by lot from the different units would have their way with me. The
rule was that they could neither harm nor disfigure me. I was, after all
the personal property of their commanding general, and also destined to
pleasure their comrades on subsequent evenings. So they were put on their
best behavior to pass the captive pleasure boy on to their comrades intact
and looking pretty.

I cannot say that the soldiers really mistreated me, not by their lights
anyway not by the customs of the time. I was, after all, a prisoner of war,
a former enemy taken captive, stripped naked, and enslaved as a pleasure
boy. Oh some of the soldiers could get a bit rough, slapping me around,
spanking or strapping me, but most were decent enough. For my part, I knew
my place and acted accordingly: uncomplaining and complaisant, physically
and sexually submissive, enthusiastic and athletic in our couplings.

During the day I acted as my general's body servant, attending to his
raiment and meals, helping with setting up and taking down his pavilion,
loading the carts, that sort of thing. As much as the weather permitted he
kept me totally naked. I became a well known figure in the camp, both from
my attendance on the general and my assignations with his soldiers on
alternate nights.

Six months later, my general died of dysentery and I was sold into slavery
in the newly designated capital of Isfahan. My new master, a former soldier
named Barash operated the finest wine shop in the capital with a top tier
clientele and bid a high price for me. But then, he knew that, with my
exotic beauty, I would command fees he could count in silver rather than in
copper coin.

My personal situation aside, there were worse places to live than the
Seljuk capital. Isfahan is a pleasant green city which lies in the lush
plain at the foot of the Zagros mountains. It flourishes in a desert thanks
to the Zayandeh River whose name means 'life giver" in Old Persian. The
river arises in the Zagros mountains and flows for four hundred kilometers
(250 miles) before ending in the Gavkhouni swamp east of the city.

For a city in a desert the climate is temperate with regular
seasons. Though the summers can be very hot, the open plain to the north
allows cooling winds to flow through the city. Before modern air
conditioning, the more prosperous inhabitants cooled their dwellings with
windcatchers which directed the flow of air through underground irrigation
channels called qanats where they gave up their heat to the cool
underground water. Natural air pressure then force the flow back up into
the dwellings. No machinery was required. For the rest of the populace,
temperatures at night are moderate which is why so many of the poorer sort
of people slept on their roofs. In winter the climate is mild but the
nights can be cold. Snow is not unknown.

Under its new sultan Malik Shah I, son of Alp Arslan, the victor at
Manzikert, the city became the capital of the Seljuks, a Turco-Persian
dynasty that ruled a newly conquered empire sprawling from central Anatolia
and Syria through Mesopotamia, Iran, and beyond -- all the way to
Trans-Oxiana and the Aral Sea in Central Asia. It also controlled the
southeastern corner of the Arabian peninsula, a region controlled in modern
times by the Emirates and Oman. Originating in the Turcoman tribal
confederations of Central Asia, the Seljuks quickly adopted Persian culture
and became great patrons of Persian art, language, and literature. The
Seljuks were to be the target of the First Crusade in 1096.

This was the setting of my latest experience of sex slavery. There was
something of a pattern in my centuries of living, where periods of wealth
and freedom came interspersed with periods of captivity and slavery, even
sexual slavery. The truth is that all my long life I have been both blessed
and cursed by a lovely form and face that inspire admiration and lust in
the heart of any male who appreciates a beautiful boy. I am small and
pretty and uniformly bronzed from habitual nudity. So I looked entirely too
much like someone's catamite or pleasure boy. With my androgynous if wiry
physique and fine-boned features I fell far short of normal male standards
in height, muscular development, and secondary sexual characteristics like
beard and body hair. I was smooth even at the fork of my legs. Since I had
stopped aging before my beard grew in I have never had to shave. The upshot
of it all was I often wasn't taken seriously as a male but was considered
fair game for capture and taming.

I have had much experience of rape and sexual servitude over the
centuries. Enslaved at fourteen by a Roman tribune as a spoil of war, I
became my captor's catamite and body slave until sold on to a merchant in
Massalia, modern Marseille. My new master also kept me nude and used me as
a messenger and pleasure boy but later put me to work as a scribe as
well. Set free by his will when he died suddenly of a fall from a horse, I
traveled to the East and made my first fortune in Alexandria, working in a
boy brothel while investing in mercantile ventures on the side. That is
where I took up the Roman habit of having all my body hair, little as it
was, plucked with tweezers. After several decades of plucking it stopped
sprouting. So I was completely hairless and would stay that way forever.

In the early first century AD I spent a few years in ancient Antioch as a
Daphne Boy, enslaved for an unjust debt as a temple prostitute. The cult of
the nymph Daphne is allied to that of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Male
acolytes, for that is what they called us, offered themselves to boy
lovers. We were very popular because we were scrupulous about personal
hygiene, trim and fit, and hand picked for our beauty of face and
form. Although we could not chose our clients, the life was pleasant
enough, with bright airy accommodations, good food, and decent
treatment. The priests let us keep tips from our clients so we had a bit of
coin to spend on our two days off per month.

I made friends among the other boys and even some of my clients, though I
was glad enough when circumstances freed me before my unchanging youth
could be noticed. In some ways I still have fond memories of my time as a
Daphne Boy, slave though I then was. Other periods of slavery before and
since were not so pleasant. I had spent a year in the Colosseum as a
gladiator, forced to fight for my life before the crowd. I became quite the
crowd favorite, fighting naked and armed with two knives. They called me
the Killer Catamite because, after my bouts, I was regularly given to rich
spectators who paid gold for the chance to fuck me fresh from my latest
combat, still covered with sweat, the dust of the arena, and the blood of
my foe.

Now once again I had been cast into slavery. It could have been much
worse. I could have been sent to the galleys or the mines where life
expectancy is only three years at best. I was not kept in a cage or
shackled. Barash was a decent master, firm but fair, reasonable in his
demands on me, and proprietarily protective of his boys. Customers
understood that the man would not tolerate abuse or rough stuff and he had
the size and strength to enforce his will. He also had a gruff sense of
humor combined with a tavern keeper's professionally cynical outlook on the
human condition. A patient man and a good listener, he seemed to be able to
carry on three conversations at the same time with customers and staff. I
liked the way he could talk drunks down from a fight, though if it came to
it, he and his bouncer could likely handle any three men. He kept a bung
tapper under the counter for just that purpose.

"Go with him, Iskander. Be sure to please him, there's a good lad." my
owner said, not unkindly, slipping the two silvers the man had paid him
into the sash of his tunic. Anything I got in tips I had to share with him
fifty-fifty.

I took the man upstairs. Once there he opened the screens of the windows
the better to see me. Delight marked his face as he slipped the houri boy
pants off my hips and let them fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them
naked. The customer was practically drooling. And why not. I dare say that
I was a vision of youthful male pulchritude.

What he stared at was a comely youth (a "cute twink" in modern parlance),
apparently of no more than sixteen summers and prettier than any boy
rightly ought to be. I was quite slender and short for my age, my fawn-like
physique graced with a wiry musculature, toned and taut from hard work. You
might say I was almost skinny, with narrow shoulders and a flat but
corrugated chest and stomach sporting well-defined abdominals, prominent
ribs and sharp hip bones, with a firm round rump. Only the marked
definition of my muscular development hinted that I was past my growth
spurt.

The tracery of veins on my forearms, calves, and belly showed how very
little body fat I carried. I like to think my manhood is more than adequate
but I wouldn't be scaring the horses. It takes both my small hands to cover
an erection, but only one when it was soft. My naturally pale skin wore the
tawny gold that results from long exposure to the sun. So my wiry physique
was sleek and smooth and deeply tanned.

My features were delicate with an almost elfin quality to them: a flawless
bronzed complexion, a straight nose, finely arched brows, a chiseled jaw
line, high cheekbones, and large green eyes blessed with eyelashes so long
they could never have been meant for a boy, topped by a tousled blond
thatch which almost reached my shoulders.

I had the looks that tavern owners and their customers preferred in their
wine boys. The kinds of looks that inspired poets to homoerotic allusions
in their verses. In traditional Persian culture, homosexuality and
homoerotic expressions were openly tolerated. You might encounter it in
public places from taverns to military camps to bathhouses and coffee
houses. Even in the monasteries and seminaries. Sufi practitioners
reportedly achieved states of spiritual ecstasy by admiring beautiful boys
as if they were earthly glimpses of the beauty of god. Later on, during the
Safavid era, boy brothels were legally recognized and taxed.

Having stripped me, the man disrobed revealing the lard lean body of a
warrior, his olive skin marked with several more scars.

"Now you are mine, pretty one, at least for this time that I have rented
you for. I only wish I could buy you and take you with me. A delicate
flower like you would grace my tent with your extraordinary beauty. I have
never seen a finer boy. You have the face and body that poets will sing
about, but for now your task is to worship my manhood."

He shoved me to my knees and presented his cock for worship, thrusting down
my throat so far I found it hard to breathe. He was the domineering sort
who takes total command of a boy and uses him hard. In all honesty, I have
to admit that I respond to that approach. I am by nature a sexual
submissive, a bottom boy at heart. That is why I am strongly attracted to
such men.

I knew I would be sore from this assignation, but I had to do my best to
please him.  I had too much self-discipline to resist any use to which a
customer put my body. They had rented it for the hour I was with them and
that was that.

Even after the man shot his cum into my mouth he remained hard. Some men
are like that. It meant he would recover quickly and be capable of another
ejaculation in a very short time. The man stood me up facing him and had me
spread my legs. Holding me under my arms, he lifted me bodily, setting me
down, impaling me on his cock. It was a sudden total penetration, coming
before I was ready for it. I gasped.

"There there boy. Lock your heels behind me and take some of your weight on
your legs. I am not trying to rip you open with my fleshy sword. If you
hurt down there it is because you are so small and tight. I enjoy vigorous
sex with a boy, for the pleasure it gives me, but I feel no joy in
inflicting pain, even on unworthy boys such as yourself."

I nodded and locked my heels behind his back. I still squirmed and gasped
but his long arms closed around me holding me in place. He spoke in some
Turkic dialect I could not readily follow though I knew he was expressing
his disdain for my kind, boys who give themselves to men, as if I were a
wine boy by choice. I don't know how many times I have been called a boy
slut or a pussy boy by men who were fucking me for coin. If they despised
boys why didn't they leave me alone. Let then find whores.

Not that my wishes mattered in that situation. He shoved my back to the
wall and started pumping into me. My body responded as it always does. Soon
I was erect and moaning. He smiled at me though scornfully, pulling my
turgid cock out and letting it slap back against my belly. He kissed me,
thrusting his tongue into my mouth forcefully. He left no doubt that this
was nothing less than a conquest as he continued his scornful comments on,
presumably, my ancestry and my numerous physical and moral failings.

Finally he stiffened and grunted, shooting another huge load into my
ass. That did take the wind out of his sails for a little while, though it
was not long before he had me braced against the wall, my head resting on
my crossed arms as he plowed into me over and over. Only afterwards did we
actually lie on the bed. Or rather he did. As soon as he was up to it,
literally, I had to sit astride his hips and impale myself on his
manhood. His virility was tremendous. He fucked me three times in little
more than an hour and left me sore and bruised and battered. I could hardly
drag myself downstairs still fully naked to report to my master.

He was annoyed that the man had taken my houri boy pants with him as a
souvenir and insisted I finish my shift in the nude. That let the customers
see the finger marks that hard man had left on my ass and garnered me all
sorts of phony sympathy as these men speculated on just how the marks had
been inflicted on the little wine boy, poor thing. They speculated out loud
on what lascivious acts might I have been performing in the acquiring of my
"battle scars." The bolder of them caressed or squeezed my bare ass
cheeks. One man turned me over his knee and started spanking my ass till my
master intervened, grabbing and twisting the man's arm to make him let me
go.

"I'll have no rough stuff with the boys. If you want to play with this one,
it will cost you two silvers to take him upstairs."

The man shook his head declining the offer. I got back on my feet and went
back to serving wine.

As a small nude slave boy I was fair game for their pats and their roving
hands. I could neither complain nor resist. Both as a slave and as a
Christian, it was against the law for me to strike a Muslim no matter what
the provocation. In any event, sexual overtures and touching could never be
considered a provocation for my sort, a wine boy whose body was for rent. I
went about my business trying to look perky and cheerful. Sullen slave boys
get switched for their presumption. Barash was a decent man, but he had a
business to run too. So I put a smile on my face and let everyone ogle my
booty.

It must have been good for business since I was very much in demand that
evening. So much so that my hole was sore the next day. My master even
smiled as we closed up for the night and patted me on the head. The next
day, he outfitted me with a new pair of houri boy pants though these rode
even lower on my hips and ass and the legs barely reach the knees, the
better to display my body. I sighed as I pulled them on. If I had to be a
brothel boy anyway, I might as well look the part.

			Chapter 2. The Poet

I slept atop the roof that night, as I did during the hot summer nights. My
master never bothered me then, recognizing that I needed a good night's
sleep every night if I were to look my best for the customers. They wanted
their wine boys fresh and perky. Toward that end all of us wine boys were
treated to a regime of an decent diet, regular baths, depilation (not
needed in my case), unguents, and cosmetics. That left us healthy, smooth,
sweet smelling, and prettily made up.

I was never locked up. Like most slaves I went about entirely free of
physical restraints. The difficulties of escape and the threat of
punishment were enough to keep all but the boldest or most recalcitrant in
line. I myself was biding my time, waiting for the right moment. It would
do no good to try to run away without a plan, funds, clothing, weapons, and
transport. Arranging an escape would be a formidable challenge on my
own. If only I could enlist someone in my cause, but whom?

Yes I had won free from slavery in the past but almost half the time not
from actual escape and evasion. A fall from a horse killed my second master
who had freed me in his will, years earlier than he ever expected to
die. In Antioch the Roman governor had set me free from slavery as a Daphne
boy after my heroics in rescuing the two young sons of the garrison
commander from certain death in a fire. My freedom from slavery as a pearl
diver had been through purchase and later emancipation by the merchant
Peroz, he of fond memory, one of the most thoroughly decent men I have ever
known. A coup d'etat in Ancient Rome led to my freedom from gladiatorial
combat in the arena.

All prior escape attempts had been a success, except one. Despite my
initial escape from that pearl diving camp, I got caught some days later
after my horse died in the desert. I was punished then but not severely
since I had spared the guards' lives during my escape, just tying them up
instead of killing them. That taught me never to make a bloody exit. It was
better not to commit crimes in escaping that would give the authorities
extra incentive to hunt me down or to post a reward or punish me harshly if
recaptured: no murders or thefts, except maybe that of a horse.

A regular customer in those days was Rufi al Hejazi, a Sufi poet. Not quite
twenty-three, he was willowy and slender, his small-boned frame standing
maybe a couple of inches taller (5 cm) than I was though he weighed little
more. The young man very well favored with chiseled if slightly effeminate
features and large grey eyes peering out from under fine arching
eyebrows. Aside from a narrow mustache he was clean shaven. Though he wore
the traditional long robe of the region, his was cut a bit tight in the
upper torso, showing he had a slim trim body. I found myself wishing I
could see more of it.

Rufi always watched me as I went about my duties in the tavern though he
had never rented me out, much to my disappointment. Friendly as he was,
there was a line he would not cross. The owner did not mind if I spent time
chatting him up a bit, not with a regular customer, as long as I did not
neglect my other duties. Friendly service built repeat business. Over time
our relationship became quite cordial and easy going. He was a very likable
young man with an impish sense of humor but also a serious side too.

"Ah but you tempt me my little blond boy with your smiles and your shapely
form. Indeed it is as the Imam Sufyan al-Thawri wrote on the subject of
temptation, 'If every woman has one devil accompanying her, then a handsome
lad has seventeen'. In your case I would make it twenty-seven. The Prophet
Muhammad himself said: 'Beware of beardless youth for they are a greater
source of mischief than young maidens'."

"But sir," I teased, "do not the poets praise the love of a man for a
comely boy?"

Indeed, as rule, the beloved in Persian love poetry is not a woman at all
but a young man who has caught the eye of the poet, whether a comely page,
a handsome soldier, or a cute novice at a trade of profession.

"Ah, but the poets are merely bearing witness to the ethereal beauty of God
in the form of a well-favored boy. The ecstasy those poems celebrate is
born not out of base lust but from a chaste love of a grown man for a
lissom youth. The sought after boy puts us in mind of the beautiful world
given to us by Allah, the Compassionate and the Merciful."

For all his excuses, Persian love of youths was carnal and deeply ingrained
in that culture. It began in boyhood when Persian boys use each other for
sexual pleasure, the company of females being denied to them. Even after
marriage grown men would seek out lovely boys, and the wine shop was a
legitimate place for them to indulge their passion for lissom and pretty
youths. Islamic jurisprudence generally considered that an attraction
towards beautiful youths was normal, indeed only natural, for a grown
man. After all, the veil concealed the faces of women outside a man's own
family, and voluminous garments concealed their bodies. So why should lust
men not turn their attentions to pretty boys trained to be skilled in the
amorous arts and, as slaves, utterly complaisant.

Certainly there were many fine looking boys and young men held in slavery
in those days. During its phases of expansion, Islamic armies carried off
vast numbers of young male slaves, some to serve as pages at court or in
the households of the well off or even as soldiers like the Mamelukes of
Egypt and later the Janissaries of the Ottomans. Frolicking with boys was a
favorite amusement amongst the Seljuk soldiery. The Seljuk elite very much
preferred pretty blond boys as their paramours or houri boys. No one
thought less of them for their inclinations. And it is not that they hadn't
or wouldn't later take wives who would give them sons. Each to their own
sphere: women were for procreation; boys were for carnal pleasure.

Rather like the geisha of Japan, the more gifted among the young male
slaves were trained to be courtesans in the fullest sense of that
word. They would serve wine at banquets and receptions, and play music and
maintain their end of a cultivated conversation. Of course, their
delectable bodies were also available as the evening wore on.

The intellectualization Persians put on these practices surely dates back
to the Hellenistic period. Greeks poets too sang of their wine boys as
objects of homoerotic passion. Then there was the pedagogical element in
the love Greeks professed for boys. They fancied that the institution of
man-boy love was absent in 'primitive' cultures. Among barbarians, a boy
could learn all he needed from his own father. People in higher
civilizations depended on experienced males to lovingly train boys to
become men, with erotic attraction as the inducement.

I considered the poet's pious excuses to be a combination of hyperbole and
denial, just a verbal smokescreen for drooling over the sight of pretty
lads at the taverns, coffee houses and baths. Not to mention the boy
brothels. My friend, the poet may have been fooling himself but he did not
fool me. He wanted me all right, and I mean carnally, in the flesh, not
just as an exemplar of the ethereal beauty of divinity. I know. I had seen
the way his pupils widened when he looked at me, the flaring of his
nostrils to take in my scent, the way he licked his lips.

Maybe I cannot read thoughts, but I can read faces and body language and
interpret nonverbal auditory cues that others miss. My gift and the many
centuries of life experience it have provided me, gives me insights into
other people's intentions and emotions. I can almost always tell when
someone is lying to me. I always know when they want me.

My master, a grizzled soldier named Barash, overheard our exchange and
smiled. He was tolerant with me, I will give him that. Indeed he never
abused me or the other three boys nor punished us without cause. He was
what slaves call a decent master. So he knew that a bit of harmless
flirtation with customers was all part of the service, and who knows, Rufi
might one day finally plunk down his silver and take me upstairs. With an
encouraging nod, Barash turned his attention to other customers.

One summer's day Rufi came by the wine shop early and rented me out for the
entire morning and afternoon, though I would still have to entertain
clients that evening. I was excited that finally the poet was ready to take
me to bed. Now I liked Rufi a lot as a friend and he was really cute too,
so I psyched myself up to give him the best sex of his entire life.

He surprised me. Instead of taking me to his home or to a room apart, he
invited me to join him as his guest to the nude bathing pool on the river a
couple of kilometers upstream of the city. The pool was a lovely spot along
the life giving river. Shaded by trees arching over the river from the
banks, the western side lapped the roots of several huge boulders larger
than a house. The other bank was a sunny meadow.

Like the baths in the city itself, the pool was one of the few places where
young men could get publicly naked, shedding thoser voluminous robes which
were deliberately designed to conceal the outlines of the human body. Every
boy longs for the freedom to be himself, to bare his limbs to the sky, to
show off and strut his stuff in front of his friends and rivals.

The boys swam or dived off the highest rock over thirty feet (10 m) into a
deep pool, each competing for the showiest dive. Others swam energetically
back and forth or raced their friends. The lazy ones contented themselves
with merely floating in the cool waters of the river, maybe sculling their
arms and legs to help them to stay afloat. Young and slender, these boys
were all bone and sinew and muscle with very little body fat.

There I finally got to see Rufi's sexy body and he viewed mine, what little
of it he had not ogled already at the wine shop in my skimpy costume.  We
both liked what we saw. Rufi was lightly built but with the firm muscles
and the sharp definition of a dancer. He told me that despite the languid
appearance he cultivated, he trained daily with the sword and the bow. In
warm weather he was a daily visitor to the pool where he would swim for an
hour. Also he went riding three times a week. As for his taste for wine. I
already knew he never over indulged. He made a show about drinking but
really he could linger for an hour or two over a single cup of wine,
careful to take food with it, nursing his drink, all the while pretending
that, like a good Sufi poet, he was getting drunk.

Rufi's body was smooth and nearly hairless. He was bare at the fork of his
legs, keeping his pubes clean shaved as is the custom with many Muslim
youths. For good measure he shaved his pits too. He had nothing on his
chest nor any treasure trail below his navel. His lower limbs had only the
lightest dusting of fine black hair which looked good against his olive
skin. Smiling, he lead me up to the diving rock and jumped off, tucking his
legs in to a cannonball. I responded with a a nice swan dive the first time
and a one-and-a-half somersault the next.

"Don't be such a showoff, Isakander." Rufi said scolding me gently for my
fancy dives. "You will have the other boys panting after you. Remember you
are my guest today."

He was right that my diving would attract the attention of those who like
pretty youths. I am something of an exhibitionist so there I was
shamelessly calling attention to my trim hairless body.

That was why, when I climbed out of the pool onto a rock, I deliberately
paused as I lifted myself out of the water, my butt and cleavage on
display, letting other males get a good look at my pert rump as the water
sluiced off it. My slow walk toward the diving stone gave viewers a chance
to ogle my perfectly formed buttocks as they dimpled fetchingly with my
deliberate stride. As I waited for another diver, I stretched my arms
upward in the shape of a diamond, just touching the tips of my fingers,
flattening my belly, and tightening my glutei to accent their
cleavage. Afterwards, I relaxed a moment then wind-milled my arms before
bending over as if loosening up but really to display the curves of my
shapely bum to best advantage. That earned me a sharp slap on my butt from
Rufi.

"Give the rest of the boys a chance to catch a patron's eye, will you
Iskander." he added, rolling his eyes at my blatant tactics. "With everyone
oggling your ass, what chance do they have?"

"You certainly have nothing to worry about Rufi. No one could overshadow a
youth as pretty as you. Don't you realize how utterly scrumptious you are?"

He said nothing in reply, though looking very pleased but also embarrassed
by my sincere compliment.

Rufi really had nothing to apologize for. He was a classic Mediterranean
beauty with a slight build much like my own: taut, tanned, and toned, but
he was olive skinned with dark wavy hair and large grey eyes while I am
blond and green-eyed. Standing together atop the diving rock we made a
striking pair, one blond, the other dark, both young and pretty and ever so
sexy, both of us smooth and hairless. We dove and swam for the longest
while then climbed out and stretched out on the grass of the meadow side by
side.

Rufi was curious about my past so I gave him a heavily edited resume of how
I had been a merchant's apprentice in Tarsus when actually I was my own
master. I talked of the defense of the town, of my own role in the militia,
and how the general had taken me to his bed rather than have me slain
outright.

"Oh what a waste that would have been, my pretty blond friend. A beautiful
boy should be cherished and enjoyed, not killed out of hand. And you are a
swordsman too, like me. Quite a good one to hear you tell the tale of
Tarsus. Maybe we can practice together."

"It would have to be secretely Rufi. As both a Christian and a slave, I may
not take up a weapon nor wield it against a Muslim."

He subsided with a nod, keeping his silence, looking me up and down. Since
we were entirely naked the physical evidence of Rufi's attraction for me
was unmistakable. His cock was plumping up and visibly lifting off his
balls. He was giving me the kind of look that a male reserves for an object
of his desire. So I asked him:

"Why is it that you do not reach out to me or let me embrace you? You have
never sought me for pleasure, Rufi, though I know you want me. That much is
obvious. As you can readily see, I find you terribly attractive too. I
would give myself to you willingly and gladly, my friend."

"Ah, my lovely blond boy. Were you free, I would take you to my bed in an
instant. Alas, you are a slave. Even though you are willing, it would be
immoral for me to take advantage of you that way. After all, I had to rent
you for the day, so we could be together in this delightful place. Willing
or not, you are constrained by your servile status, and that is something I
can never take advantage of.

"You see, Iskander, unlike most people who simply accept slavery as a
normal part of society, I hate the very idea of people owning other human
beings. Yes I know that our religion allows Muslims to enslave Christians,
but I feel in my heart that no man should own another, regardless of his
creed. Even a decent master like that Barash of yours has too much power
over his slaves."

"Doesn't your Quran endorse slavery?"

"Yes, and so does your Bible, infidel boy!" he rejoined with some
asperity. "What of it? Yes, I am glad that our Prophet forbade us Muslims
from enslaving each other. A big step in the right direction, surely. By
contrast your own scriptures endorse slavery wholeheartedly for anyone, so
they are clearly inferior from a moral sense."

I surprised him by telling him that I agreed wholeheartedly with his views,
and not just because I had fallen into slavery. Of course I could not tell
him of my own long life and the many times I had been enslaved, but the
vehemence of my words carried conviction. He looked at me, apologetically,
and said:

"I only wish I had the wealth to buy you, lovely Iskander, and to set you
free so we could be lovers and true friends."

Rufi then sprawled out on his back, eyes closed against the sun, not even
looking at me. I felt love and gratitude for this fine young man, for his
character and convictions, as well as a strong physical attraction. Hoping
I was not being precipitate or going too far, I leaned over and licked the
head of his cock as it lay semi-turgid on his belly. He sucked in his
breath but made no move to stop me. He kept his eyes shut, as if in sleep
and hence unaware of the way I was taking advantage of his defenseless and
naked body. Fine, if that was the only way he would let me minister to his
needs, I would go along with it. He was after all so very cute and sexy.

I toyed with his cock and balls, licking the shaft, kissing the glans,
snuffling at his ballsac. I sucked one ball at a time into my mouth and
sucked on it for a bit, laving it with with my saliva. Then I licked all
the way down his now turgid shaft and took him fully into my mouth. He
flinched and put his hands to my head but not to push me away.

"Oh yes, Iskander. Keep doing that, my lovely little wine boy. You are so
very talented with your mouth. With just a moment's attention you have got
my manhood fully aroused. I don't know when I have been so hard."

I could not reply other than with a naughty look and a smile then went to
work on him in earnest. In short order I brought him to a shuddering climax
as he grunted and gasped and spurted his seed into my mouth.

"No, don't swallow it all, Iskander. Please, Iskander ... share it with
me."

I pulled myself up along his exquisite body and kissed him full on the
lips, shoving my tongue deep into his mouth, my tongue dueling with his,
thrusting, parrying, tasting, both of us savored his manly juices to the
fullest. Meanwhile, our hands roamed over our bodies, touching, stroking,
petting, squeezing, as we explored each other's boyish forms, all their
muscles, planes, curves, and cavities. For someone who affected the languor
of an aesthete, the poet's flesh was taut and firm. No couch lounger he,
but an athletic young man at the peak of his physical powers, the very best
sort of body to arouse my own libido. He was handsome too in a very cute
and boyish sort of way. In short, my friend Rufi was quite the catch and I
did my best to let him know how much I appreciated him.

I should say that I am attracted to two kinds of males, twinks and
masters. I love sex with pretty boys, youths much like myself or Rufi,
supercute twinks in modern terms. Also I crave sex with powerful older
males too, like that scarred warrior I mentioned earlier in this
narrative. The difference is that sex with another pretty boy is an erotic
romp with someone my equal. We lads typically engage in sixty nine or trade
off taking the active role. With a boy, I feel energized as we jump into
bed and roll around kissing and laughing, sucking and fucking. Sex with
another boy is an absolute delight. By contrast sex with an older masterful
male, is a more serious matter, a response to a deep felt need or
craving. With such a man I go all quiet and submissive, ready to follow
orders, to sink to my knees and worship his manliness. If he wants to tie
me up and take a strap or switch to me, that's OK too. I am there to be
used, though within limits of course - light bondage and humiliation but no
more than that. I am no masochist. I don't derive pleasure from the
sensation of pain.

		Chapter 3. Sea Change

That first day we consummated our new relationship in all the ways that two
young, athletic, and enthusiastic males can physically express the love and
attraction they feel for each other. Rufi, for all his initial reluctance
to make love to me, was as accomplished in the amorous arts as he was in
poetry. It was my happiest day in a long time.

Thereafter he rented me out for the afternoon once a week. He always took
me away from the wine shop. He refused to rent me for a sordid quickie
during my usual working hours in the evening, so I never took him upstairs
to my room in the wine shop. Instead we spent our time at the river, in
coffee shops, and at his home. Rufi was comfortably well off from family
money though he was not a rich man in his own right.

Still he was troubled by his conscience and the difference in our
status. Some months into our love affair, when I was sure I could rely on
his loyalty, I broached my plan to him. I explained that the only practical
way I could become a free person was to embrace Islam, to make a profession
of faith.

Now the profession of faith is deceptively simple, a recitation of a short
verbal formula. The hard part is persuading the authorities that your
profession of faith is sincere and not a mere stratagem. After all, slaves
were value property for which their masters had paid good money. Also the
community of believers could not be tainted by poseurs, merely pretending
to convert to the faith of the Prophet. I explained that I had a solution
to both problems.

I would disarm Barash's potential opposition by essentially purchasing my
freedom, showing him the location of a hidden cache of jewels and gold
coins, one of many I had planted over the centuries against just such a
need. To prove my sincerity to the jurists, I would show that I had
memorized the Quran, something I had actually done three centuries before
when posing as a Muslim. At the wine bar, Rufi and I would talk of his
faith and of its superiority to Christianity. Patrons had always noted that
our exchanges were highly intellectual, often about matters of philosophy,
history, and aesthetics. So my gradual conversion to Islam would seem
plausible. Their testimony along with Barash's and Rufi's, my literacy in
Arabic and my knowledge of the Quran and the Hadith, the sayings and deeds
of the Prophet Mohammed would all stand me in good stead.

Understand that I long ago abandoned the religion of my upbringing, the
pagan gods and forest sprits of my youth in Germany. I have never really
embraced another religion, not in my heart and mind. Very soon I realized
that humans can live moral lives without reliance on deities or creeds. I
am turned off by the superstition and fairy tales that encumber organized
religions. I have no use for any creed. They are all flawed attempts by
fallible humans to explain the unknown and to answer existential questions
that probably have no good answers.

I have seen many religions rise and fall. Zorastrianism once prevailed from
the Euphrates to the Indus only to be replaced by Islam. Christianity
replaced the gods of ancient Egypt and the Levant until swept away by
Islam. India saw the birth of Buddhism, which later went into decline in
the land of its birth but flourished in lands far to the North and
East. Hinduism has ancient roots but it really came into its own only
during the Gupta period as I had seen for myself when I lived as a saddhu
or monk in India in the sixth century. So I was ready to pose as a Muslim
once again but not actually take up the faith.

If all went as expected, my plan to take at least six months though I would
keep Barash in the dark about it till near then end. Only during the last
month would I make my offer to Barash. As luck would have it, though my
timetable held, I found my freedom in an utterly different way from what I
had planned.

During my occasional time off, I was free to stroll about the city, having
convinced Barash that letting me circulate the streets was a good
promotional move. My physical beauty drew the attention of the more
discriminating clientele, aided by the sexy clothes I wore: houri boy pants
topped with an Aladdin type vest, the kind that did not cover anything
except the pectorals in front and the shoulder blades in back. It did not
close in front either, allowing a good view of my nipples and their
gleaming golden rings. The vest was basically a decoration, intended to
highlight the shapeliness of the upper male torso and to bare the midriff
entirely, leaving a gap gap more than three hands wide between the bottom
of the vest and the top of the pants.

Regular customers recognized me, nodded or chatted me up, and pointed me
out or even introduced me to their friends along with a strong
recommendation that they swing by Barash's place some evening and sample my
charms. When strangers asked if I were for rent, I would simply tell them
that, yes I was a wine boy who worked at Barash's, and that my time could
be rented for two silvers for a half-hour's assignation. Also I was
available for private parties off premises but not on my own account. All
arrangements had to go through my master. I often went by the gates in the
late afternoon, calling out to likely travelers, perhaps, touting the fine
accommodations on offer. Barash provided lodging to legitimate travelers as
well as food, drink, and boys. For me it was a learn my way about the city
and to see new faces. Sometimes I clambered up to the rooftops and
scrambled along that aerial highway for the sheer challenge of it.

One afternoon, a band of five travelers passed through the southern gate
and spotted me lounging nearby. Though they had the look of hard men, they
rode fine horses equipped with good quality tack and were all armed with
swords and bows. They looked like they knew how to use them too. I suspect
any bandits who spotted them on the road had let these fierce warriors pass
by unmolested in favor of easier prey.

As they passed through the gate, my appraising gaze caught the eye of their
leader, a tall lean fellow with a fine gold device set into his
turban. Speaking accented Persian he said:

"Salaam, pretty one. You wouldn't be one of Barash's fine lads, now would
you?"

"Indeed sir, I am. I take it you have heard of my master's establishment."

"Aye, lad. Friends tell me that his food is good, his wine is un-watered,
his rooms are cool, and his boys are hot. That last I can see for myself is
quite true."

I smiled at the compliment and chattered pleasantly with the man as we made
our way into the city. Tariq told me that he was a soldier of fortune, an
Arab from Syria, as were his men. I noticed that among themselves they
spoke not Arabic but a form of Aramaic that few in those parts would likely
understand. I was one who did, but I pretended otherwise on general
principles, not out of any real suspicion at the time.

I delivered the riders to the stables out back where their mounts would be
cared for then led them into the tavern proper where accommodations were
quickly arranged. Naturally I was part of the deal. The men took two large
rooms upstairs and rented me for the entire evening. Leading me to their
rooms early, they stripped my clothes off and had their fun with me for a
couple of hours, passing me around, often taking me two at at time, one in
each orifice. I responded to their strong lean bodies and their no
nonsense, take charge attitude, throwing myself into their energetic
couplings with unfeigned enthusiasm.

During our couplings I heard one man suggest to Tariq that maybe they
should take me with them after they settled accounts with Barash. I didn't
like the sound of that at all but continued to pretend I did not understand
Aramaic, answering only in Persian.

Afterwards, while they took a break to recoup their energies, they donned
flowing robes and brought me downstairs. The other men wanted me to serve
them at dinner entirely naked but Tariq had a better idea. He slipped my
vest onto my shoulders but tossed my houri boy pants into a corner. The top
was all that I would be allowed to wear. More decoration than garment, the
vest made me feel incredibly slutty. There I was stark naked for all
intents and purposes, my fine round rump entirely exposed along was my
manhood. No wonder I got a painfully hard erection, my cock pointing
straight up and lying flat to my belly.

Tariq used my erection as a handle to lead me downstairs, laughing at my
full body blush. You would think that with all my experience I would be
beyond embarrassment but I could not but feel both shamed and terribly
naughty. It didn't help that Tariq and his friends kept up a patter of
uninhibited talk among themselves and with the other customers, speaking of
their fun with me upstairs, commenting on my attributes and skills in the
amorous arts, all the while pawing me as I did my level best to serve them
their supper. As I went back and forth to the kitchen, I had to run a
gantlet of groping hands that nearly made me drop what I was carrying.

Finally Barash walked over to Tariq and had a quiet word with him.

"Downstairs in the main room, you may eat or drink. If you want to play
with this boy, do it upstairs. Don't shame him so blatantly in public. Even
slave boys have feelings."

"Ah, one of your special pets, is he tavern master?" Tariq rejoined, but he
signaled to his men to desist nonetheless.

I flashed a grateful look at my master, thankful for his
intervention. Thereafter the men left me in peace till it was time to take
me upstairs once again.

You might think a full belly and several cups of wine each would have
mellowed the five of them, but they threw themselves into lovemaking with
renewed vigor. I was rammed and poked and prodded and thumped for several
hours, as the men bent and folded and twisted my small body into all manner
of positions. Tariq took me last, bending me over till my knees straddled
my face, driving into my upturned ass with his long thick cock. He liked to
pull all the way out and watched my battered and distended hole start to
close up, then drive down into it, squelching and squishing in the manly
juices his comrades had discharged into my fundament.

During the proceedings I overhead other comments that made me uneasy about
these men. There was more talk of taking me along with them after they
settled accounts with Barash. I didn't think that was a reference to paying
their bill or even about purchasing me from my master. It was clear that
they did not like Barash, though not for any reason I could understand
then.

When they were all done with me, Tariq insisted I spend the night in his
bed, my back and ass spooned to his chest and lap. Tired and sore, my body
reeking of lovemaking, I slumped back against the man and quickly fell
asleep.

I woke early but as is my wont I made no overt sign of it. From centuries
of caution and experience I simply listened, orienting myself as to my
situation and what might be around me. I remembered that I had fallen
asleep with Tariq in his bed. From the low voices speaking Aramaic all
around me, I gathered that the rest of his men had collected in his room
for some kind of pow-wow. I feigned sleep even when Tariq stroked my
morning wood, to test me.

It was just as well they thought me asleep and ignorant of their
language. From their exchanges I soon realized that they were a team of
assassins or rather vengeance seeker, who intended to rob and kill my
master Barash.

It seems that several years earlier, in his soldiering days, Barash had
commanded a cavalry force that destroyed two rebel villages in Syria
inhabited by Samaritans, an ancient people who still spoke a form of
Aramaic, the language of Christ. The Christians in those villages had sided
with their co-religionists, the Byzantines, against the marauding Turks. It
took quite some time for these five men, who had been away from their
homeland at the time of the attack, to track down the enemy commander they
held responsible.

Their plan was not just to kill Barash but to kidnap him and drag him out
to some quiet spot in the desert for prolonged torture. His would be a
horrible lingering death. Meanwhile the men had arrangements to make. Not
only did they need fresh supplies and extra mounts to speed their travels,
they also wanted to uncover the location of Barash's strong box. So they
would not make their move till the wee hours of the following morning.

Centuries of assumed identities and fictitious backgrounds had made me an
excellent actor. So when I was awakened by Tariq, I pretended to be
clueless about their intentions. I stretched like a cat, smiled at Tariq
and thanked him and the others for the exciting romp the previous
night. Sniffing myself I made a face, saying I really needed to wash
up. That provoked a chorus of ribald jokes and comments, as I walked out of
the room.

Of course I immediately sought out Barash and told him everything. Why did
I take his side, my slave master? I should explain that I did not resent
him personally for holding me as a slave. Much as I hated the institution
of slavery, by his lights he was doing nothing wrong. Also he was a decent
man and quite likable as a person. He certainly did not deserve the fate
his enemies had reserved for him. He thanked me for the warning, but he
pointed out that we could not simply notify the authorities.

"First of all these men have not yet acted contrary to law. And no court
would ever listen to your testimony, Iskander. You are a mere boy, a slave
and a Christian. These men are Muslims, or at least they pretend to
be. Yes, I know you name them as Christians but all Samaritans speak
Aramaic and some are Muslim and other Jewish."

"What shall we do then, sir? Must we wait till they make a move?"

"I am afraid so. We have to catch them in the act."

Barash arranged for two old comrades to station themselves in the pantry
off the kitchen near his own quarters, ready to come to his aid when the
Samaritans made their move.

Sure enough, Tariq got up during the early morning hours, leaving me asleep
in his bed. He and his men filed quietly downstairs to Barash's quarters
intending to burst in on him and catch him unawares. Instead my master was
up and about, armed and armored, braced for their attack. He held the
doorway to his rooms against them while his two friends fell upon the five
killers from behind. A hard fought battle at close quarters ensued, neither
side disposed to grant quarter. It was kill or be killed.

The battle started to go against Barash and his men, even with the element
of surprise, outnumbered as they were. Both of Barash's friends fell back
from the fight, bleeding from wounds, one even losing his sword. The pair
had to go on the defensive, both wounded and with only one sword plus a
dagger between them.

I rushed in and took up that sword. Tariq's men made a grab for me but I
was naked so they could not get a good grip. I spun around and lit into the
killers relying on my agility, speed, and hard won skills.  After centuries
of training, practice, and combat experience, it was fair to say that I was
just about the deadliest swordsman on the planet. Between the two of us,
Barash and me, we finished off all of Tariq's men. My blade cut the tendons
of Tariq's wrist disarming him. The man had no choice but to surrender.

With the testimony of Barash and his friends, the case against Tariq was a
foregone conclusion. Still he tried to muddy the waters by accusing me of
the crime of taken up arms against a Muslim. A Christian could be killed
for such an offense. Fortunately the five Samaritans had tokens of their
true faith secreted on their persons. So I got off because I had not
actually attacked a Muslim. True, I had armed myself but in defense of my
master, the intended victim, so that mitigated my offense. Barash also
spoke up for me in court.

"Honored judge, " he began. "If the problem is that the boy is both a slave
and a Christian, then let us change those facts. Iskander, I grant you your
freedom unconditionally, though I also ask you to make a profession of
faith. I have noticed how you have been talking these last months with our
friend Rufi about matters of faith and religion."

Rufi chimed in to confirm the story that I had long contemplated converting
to Islam. I proved I knew the Quran by heart, letting the judges select
surahs for me to recite. That won me the support both of the judges and of
the crowd. So then and there I made a profession of faith and officially
became a Muslim, in the eyes of the law. Naturally I never embraced Islam
in my heart. As a rationalist, I have no use for supernatural creeds of any
kind.

In due course, I dug up my hidden hoard of gold and jewels, giving one
fifth each to Barash and Rufi and keeping the rest for myself as a stake in
the mercantile trade, at which I was soon quite successful. Barash invested
his share in his business, which flourished. Rufi followed my advice on
investing for the long term and gradually built up a comfortable fortune,
making his family proud of him.

I stayed on in lovely Isfahan for another fourteen years, remaining on
excellent terms with both men, though offering my charms only to Rufi. Our
friendship flourished without the barrier of servile status between us. I
like to think I inspired some of his best love poems, the ones about the
blond wine boy with eyes the color of growing things.

I finally left the city only because my eternal youthfulness would soon
have become apparent without a change of locale and identity. I sometimes
think of my two good friends from Isfahan and of the beautiful city we
lived in.

			Epilogue

Sadly modern Persian society is extremely hostile to homosexuality. Boys
and young men who express their affection and passion for each other can be
arrested, imprisoned, and executed. I consider this intolerance to be a
perversion of traditional Persian culture which I have long admired.

As for the city Isfahan, its metropolitan area is the second largest in the
country with a population of three and a half million. The city center is
still worth a visit for its outstanding architecture. The Naghsh-e Jahan
Square in Isfahan is one of the largest city squares in the world a supreme
example of Iranian and Islamic architecture. The city boast fine
boulevards, covered bridges, rich palaces, and a flock of mosques and
minarets. There is a Persian proverb that goes "'Esfah_n nesf-e jah_n ast"
(Isfahan is half the world).

I rather took a liking to houri boy pants. Very sexy. I sometimes wear them
around the house when I don't feel like being naked. Admittedly they are
not the least bit practical for going out and about, something today's
sagger boys don't seem to realize about their own fashion trend.

Is it just me, or don't you think these sagger boys are getting overly
bold, maybe going a bit too far these days? This past summer, I saw young
men going about with the waistband of their jeans riding below their
buttocks or very nearly so, certainly on the underside of those delightful
curves that grace the bodies of athletic young males. They don't have
boxers on underneath either to cover their sweet cheeks. You could see at
least half their cleavage -- sometime six inches (15 cm) are on display,
and the lush globes of their tushes. Though the skin tone of some of the
butts on display was lighter that their tanned chests and arms, in many
cases the boys were evenly toned all over from sunbathing or swimming in
the nude.

I must admit I relish those flushes of lust I get when a nice looking boy
turns the corner, flashing his curvaceous bum. Some wear a shirt but one
fully unbuttoned and open to the sides to facilitate a dramatic
swirl. Others take their shirts off and have them dangling from a belt
loop. Either way leaves practically the entire torso bared for all to see,
from shoulders to rump and nearly to the crotch. These kids know exactly
know what they are doing too, giving a toss of the head to flip their
drooping locks out of their face, smiling, maybe running their hands down
their flanks to their hips to frame their round rumps and their cleavage.

Now you might ask, why does a young man go about on a summer's day
virtually undressed? Is it the better to to cope with the oppressive heat?
Is it to work on his suntan? Or are these lads strutting their stuff in a
none too subtle courtship display?  The answer is obvious. I cannot find it
in my heart to be too critical of the youth of today. These kids are
young. It is their time. Their juices are flowing. Let them enjoy their
youth and boisterous sexuality while they can, bless them.

The credit (or the blame, depending on your point of view) goes back to the
teenagers of the 1980s. They took to showing their underwear under their
walking shorts in the summer. At the time I smiled indulgently at what I
considered a mild form of courtship display. Then they started wearing
jeans really low on the hips but with boxer shorts covering them above the
low rise waist. The next step was when long legged swimming trunks came
into fashion, where the bottom brushed the knees but the waistband was down
by the groin.

Of course wearing your pants that low is completely impractical except as a
courtship display You can see that the kids are forever having to hike
their pants back up. With the way the bottom of their pants legs bunch and
pool around their ankles, you know that one misstep could drag them right
off their precarious perch on the boy's hips. And in the summer that much
fabric is stifling.

In defense of low saggers, I like to think that their insouciance about
baring their asses in public in yet another step toward freeing society
from unhealthy attitudes toward the human body and sexuality left over from
our fading religious traditions. The societies with the strictest rules
about covering the body are the Muslim societies where women may have to
live full enwrapped in a burka, peering out at the world through a cloth
grill. Even men may be punished for displaying any part of the body between
the waist and the knee. Western societies are much more sensible though
America is far behind Europe. Central Park in New York has nothing like the
nude sunbathing in the Englischer Garten in Munich.

Now as much as I like to display my own trim body, you won't find me going
around sagging like that. It is totally impractical. For one thing, you can
neither run nor fight, always important to a cautious survivor type like
me. That's also the reason why I wear real sneakers or walking shoes
instead of flimsy flip flops. In Central Park, look for me running by in my
Onionskin shorts or the skimpy tan-through shorts which I prefer for my
parkour expeditions or for skateboarding.

Only recently could I write of these things, choosing, from caution, to
cast them as fiction, a series of fanciful tales of an immortal youth
written under a pseudonym. My secret is safe for no one in these days of
modern science will believe it. In this tale, all of the names are real.
The events described really did happen just as I have written.