Chapter 16

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I slept badly last night. And I’ve been having recurring dreams. Dreams I’m not too proud to share with anyone. Not even Nissa… and especially not Damia. When I wake up from this dream I always feel this sense of guilt and shame. Yet… yet also this sense of longing.

You see, I’ve been dreaming about having sex with Damia.

And these dreams have been powerful and lucid. Like it was happening for real.

They always start out the same way; like a porn flick made real. It always starts with us doing regular, everyday stuff. Then they start to degenerate.

In these dreams, we are kissing hungrily, mouths open and tongues out. We would literally tear off each others clothes and I would touch every single inch of her nude form, running my hands and mouth over her bare shoulders, breasts and kissing her sex like it was her mouth. And when we joined I could have sworn I felt a real, warm… wetness that is pure ecstacy. In these dreams I could hear her moan and scream, and feel her nails digging into my skin as she gripped me with delight. Funnily enough, her hijab always stayed on. Her eyes would remain closed as I fucked the living daylights out of her all the way until I came, she came, we came, and then her eyes would pop open and she’d grit her teeth and then…

… and then I would wake up, and, not surprisingly, discover that I had jizzed my sheets. I hate that sticky sensation on its own. In a woman, fuck yeah, on it’s own, it’s rather gross. Remember, I’m a guy that’s borderline obsessed with being clean and neat. Sperm between my own thighs are not okay.

Then I would wake up, put my stained pants or shorts in the washer and take a long, hot shower. I will not lie that sometimes the remnant bits of those dreams linger on as I am semi-conscious, and many times I have thought of Damia showering with me, where we would soap each other and fuck against the bathroom wall or in the bathtub, making odd splashing sounds.

What was this then? The simple explanation would be, as someone who had sex at least thrice a week for the past four years, maybe, just maybe, these fucking (literally) dreams are symptoms of withdrawal. Maybe my body was telling me that I needed to get fucked, to fuck, to ram some girl up the ass or cunt so hard she’d scream and break the windows.

But wasn’t that the ‘old’ Dhani Ibrahim? The one that didn’t believe in love. Didn’t Damia change all that? Yes, yes. Damia has made me turn a new leaf. I didn’t have to be that guy anymore. That was the whole point of our relationship; that this time, it would be love.

Just love, and nothing else.

***

And yet, just a few days ago, in a moment of weakness, I had kissed her and fondled her breast. I still think of that moment. The kiss could have gone on for a much longer time. And it had been a beautiful, lovely kiss. Her lips were tender and warm and I wanted my lips to be there forever, if possible. And for the most part, she had let me kiss her, because she remained still, even if I detected she wasn’t too sure what was going on. The kiss ended because I suddenly had the case of Roman hands or Russian fingers or whatever fucking idiom they called it.

I had felt genuinely guilty regarding that incident.

She was a nice girl, a lovely girl, not the kind of girl that allows anyone to touch her or even kiss her like I did. Her admittance that she had enjoyed the kiss was more out of guilt than lust. She clearly wasn’t comfortable with that sort of intimate physical contact. Perhaps holding hands, and kissing her hand was as far as she’d allow at this point in the relationship.

However, in those brief few seconds when her breast was in my hand, I felt their weight and shape and just thinking about it right now sends electricity pulsing through my limbs and loins. I do not deny that I want to touch them again. But I tell myself I must not.

***

No incident like the one that happened a few days ago would go completely forgotten, despite our intentions of doing so. It clearly marked a shift in dynamics in our relationship of six months. And although we said we wanted to put it behind us, it was plain to both me and her that this needed to be talked about, because we’ve been quiet and awkward around each other.

She was moody today. I knew she was still disturbed over what had transpired. I needed to put this past us, because I wanted us to be happy and loving again. I do not doubt the love is as strong as it was, but I didn’t want that love to be expressed through agonizing quietness just because I slipped up.

We were sitting on a bench in Titiwangsa, on a warm, sunny day. It was late evening, but the sun was still bright.

“Damia, I’m sorry for what happened the other day,” I said, holding her hand.

“It’s okay, Dhani,” she said, trying her best to smile. Clearly, it wasn’t okay.

“I mean it. I slipped up. I made a mistake,” I said.

“I know, and please, just…” she said, but didn’t finish. A stray strand of hair had managed to loosen itself from her hijab, so she tucked it back in. For a brief moment I wondered what her hair was like… and imagined myself running my fingers through them.

“Something is bothering you,” I said.

“No,” Damia said.

“Come on Damia. We’re not teenagers. We should be able to talk about this like the adults we are.”

She hesitated. “I am bothered. But it wasn’t about the other day. I truly forgave you for the other day.”

I grasped her hand tighter. “Then? What else is bothering you? You can tell me.”

“That’s the thing,” she said, exasperated. “I don’t know if I can.”

I swallowed and felt thunderclouds gathering in the horizon of my mind. “Just try.”

Damia looked away from me for a few minutes. Then she took a deep breath. “Dhani, I’m not bothered by the fact that you touched my, well, boob. I actually do understand how that happened. It’s just that…” she paused, and looked at me.

“Just tell me,” I coaxed.

“It reminded me of… it reminded me of my ex-fiancee.”

I stayed quiet to allow her to speak. She sighed again, a long, angry and tired sigh.

“Dhani… I told you I broke off my engagement to that guy –”

“What was his name?” I interrupted, even though I actually wasn’t too keen to know.

“Amir. His name was Amir,” she said. “I broke it off with Amir because, like I told you, he was sleeping around with other girls, including my best friend at the time. Fara.”

Damia paused again. I saw tears start to well in her eyes. “I was so furious when I found out.”

“I understand, Damia,” I said, but then she raised a palm.

“No, Dhani, you don’t,” she said and a single tear dropped onto her rosy cheek. “I was furious when I found out, because…”

I knew what she was going to say before she even said it. But I let her, anyway.

“I was furious because at the time we were sleeping together as well,” she finally said. “Not once. Not twice. He had his own house, you see, in Cyberjaya, a quaint apartment his parents had bought and sort of bequethed to him.”

I let her talk.

“So he used to, I don’t know, bring me over once a week. And we’d spend a day in bed doing nothing else. I didn’t think anything of it; I was in love with the man, and I wanted to do and give it all for him, which I did. Every week we had sex because I loved him and I thought that was what lovers do. They make love. And I was young and naive enough to actually believe I was the only one he made love to.”

“Damia, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you have the right to know who I am; I shouldn’t lie to you or keep secrets.”

I nodded. She went on. She was crying.

“I let my relationship with Amir go on and then I found out what he had been doing behind my back. I was so angry, and sad, but most of all, I felt… used. This was a man who was fucking around with countless other girls and what did that make me? Another hole? Whore? His personal whore? I felt so insulted, so cheap that I had allowed this man I loved to put his, his, dirty dirty cock inside me at the same time he was doing other girls. Ya Allah, I was such a fool.”

She wiped away her tears. This was the first time I had ever, ever seen her speak in anger. And she wasn’t one to mince her words. It was slightly shocking to see and hear this lady whom I loved, who was normally sweet and tender, sound so angry. I practically saw and heard the venom in her eyes and voice when she spoke about this Amir.

“So that ended. And I spent nights and nights crying, begging for God to forgive me for everything. And I told myself, never would I let this happen to me again. Not for love, not for anything. I almost swore off men because I felt I should never deserve one.”

“Damia –”

“Then I fell in love with you,” she said, and her tone softened again, and a ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. The venom and pain left her eyes and she was my lovely, grey-eyed angel again. “And I am still in love with you. I just don’t want history to repeat itself. On my behalf. You’re a lovely man, Sayang. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I understand, even, if you wish to walk away…”

I grasped her hands harder. I totally understand where she’s coming from. “Damia, my sweet. No. No, I am not walking away. I love you, I love you. And nothing, past, present or future, is going to change that. I am not walking away. I am going to stay, with you.”

She smiled, one that was sad and beautiful at the same time. “I love you, Dhani. Thank you. For accepting me in all my flaws. I’m sorry I used harsh words. I’m not like that, you know?”

I nodded and kissed her hands, gently.

“I don’t want to have any secrets with you,” Damia said and leaned her head on my shoulder.

***

Secrets. Everyone has secrets. Everyone has fucking secrets.

In truth, I was more bothered than I thought I would be. So bothered, in fact, that I couldn't get it out of my head the moment I dropped her home. I drove restlessly, suddenly filled with this strange anxiety.

I kept imagining her having sex with that Amir guy. I didn’t even know what he looked like. But my head was being filled with a disturbing montage of a younger Damia. Maybe a Damia that wasn’t wearing a hijab; a Damia that had long, flowing, luscious hair that she had allowed Amir to run his fingers through and smell and bite. In my head there were flashes of Damia and Amir kissing the moment he closed the door to his fucking apartment in Cyberjaya; Damia and Amir peeling each others clothes off, not even bothering to go to the bedroom; Damia sucking off Amir; Amir playing with Damia’s sex and fondling her breasts; Damia bent over and Amir banging her from behind; DamiaAmirFUCKINGkissingtouchingnakedFUCKINGlickingsuckingFUCKING –

“FUCK THIS!” I screamed suddenly and took the road to Jalan Ceylon and cut through to Changkat Bukit Bintang; I cruised the infamous road and saw a group of three pretty young Malay girls lining up in front of my favorite club; I parked, abruptly, almost hitting this Mat Salleh who cussed at me but I didn’t care. I walked straight to the girls, said hi to Mahat the bouncer, and said, “Hello girls. Forget this place. I have drinks, I have music and a private place where we can party. And all three of you are invited.”

It didn’t take long for them to agree. I squeezed them into my BMW, drove the twenty five minutes back to my place and begin fucking them the moment we crossed my doorway. I didn’t even bother with drinks; I just wanted to fuck the shit out of these young sluts and they were more than agreeable.

And all the while I rammed these girls to the skies, in my head was the image of DamiaAmirFUCKINGkissingtouchingnakedFUCKINGlickingsuckingFUCKING –

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