Degrees of Intimacy Ch. 03

The waves crashed against the jetty. The same waves, Marla reflected, that might have crashed against the Gibraltan shore on the other side of the straits, waves that were as much Atlantic as they were Mediterranean. Each wave fierce and restful at the same time, built up slowly and steadily out at sea to break sometimes on themselves and sometimes against the concrete jetty that projected into the open water.

She glanced down at the postcard on her lap, the same one she'd started writing half an hour ago and had still not got beyond the initial sentence where she told her parents about how friendly Moroccans were. It wasn't, of course, their friendliness that most concerned her (she didn't want to tell her parents too much about how some of this friendship was real and some was just a means to an end). No. The friendship that most haunted her, even now, more than a week later, was what she'd experienced at the Atlas Hotel in Taroudannt.

Was she really a lesbian?

She'd always known she was bisexual. The first time in Kristianer with Helga and Rolf. That was one thing. But they were all drunk and very very stoned and the lovemaking was not totally successful. Helga had even fallen asleep with Marla's tongue still licking her thick pubic bush. The second time wasn't so much a reprise as a total disaster, when it was Rolf this time who was unable to fulfil his role in the trio. Men were always so eager to begin with, but you could never be sure they could sustain the enthusiasm.

And the second time in the kibbutz, with Isabella, the Brazilian girl, whose friendship had somehow developed into something altogether more intimate. Theirs had been a relationship more marked by moments of tenderness than ones of abandon and uncontrolled passion. Isabella tried so hard to hide the relationship from everyone else in the kibbutz, even sometimes pretending she hardly knew Marla, who was aware that what Isabella most wanted was for the two of them to retreat to her bed and lie together. Maybe just hold hands. Maybe just kiss each other's face and breasts. And, so few times that each time was wholly memorable, to explore the pubic region that burned so fiercely.

But none of this was anything compared to the passion Marla had enjoyed with that English woman in the Middle Atlas. In fact, not one encounter, with either man or woman, bore fair comparison to the intensity of the passion Marla experienced that day. She was so frightened of spoiling that memory, she deliberately avoided Phillippa and David the following day and set off by as early a bus as she could to El Jadida, whilst the couple no doubt continued driving on to Agadir.

The memory of those orgasms was intense not only in her mind, but the mere recollection burnt just as intensely between her legs. How could sex be so intense? So overwhelming? So totally beyond what Marla had ever associated with sex before?

Was Marla a lesbian?

She was still sure it was men she most desired. Even now, with the memory of Phillippa's fingers and thumb so vividly imprinted on her vagina and anus, it was the image of a man and the hope of achieving similar satisfaction with one that was uppermost in her mind.

"Elles sont belles, n'est-ce pas?"  Marla heard.

 "Pardon?"

"Les vagues. Ellessonttrès belles!" repeated the young man who stood above her as she sat cross-legged by the edge of the jetty.

"I speak English, you know," said Marla with a smile. The young man's French accent was truly execrable. He was slim, with baggy khaki shorts that came nearly to his knees, open-toed sandals, and a tee-shirt that celebrated the Pacha nightclub in Ibiza.

"You do? I thought you might be French or Belgian or summat."

"Not Moroccan?"

"No. Not Moroccan. You don't look Moroccan. Where d'you come from? Switzerland or Austria or something?"

"Denmark."

"Oh! I'd never have guessed!" he said, crouching down beside her. "I'm sorry for butting in, like, but I saw you were by yourself. I thought you might want company."

"Really?" said Marla, with a smile. This young man couldn't be much more than twenty, almost a boy really, with a chin that was still relatively smooth and hair that had grown out a bit from whatever style it was originally supposed to have been. He seemed quite harmless. And he had such a sweet smile.

"Yeah! I mean, I've been sorta wandering about, like, not doing much and I saw you. So I thought, well, you know, I thought..."

"Yes," said Marla, putting the hand that held her ball pen onto her lap. "The waves are beautiful. I could watch them for hours. They are very restful. And you? Where do you come from? I don't recognise the accent. Are you Australian? A New Zealander?"

"Am I fuck!" he said, rather surprised. "Do I sound like an Ozzie? No, I'm English, me. I come from Newcastle." He noticed Marla's blank expression. "It's in the North West. Near Scotland. In fact, it's a sort of Viking place. It was you Danes that we Geordies originate from."

"Oh yes," said Marla. That was fascinating. She knew her history. She knew England had once been part of the Danish Empire, but it was very curious to meet an Englishman who was part of the same heritage as her, if in a rather indirect way. "I'm Marla, by the way."

"Paul," the young man said, reaching out a hand at the end of his skinny bare arm and shaking hers in an unpractised way. "Pleased to meet you, like."

"Are you here on holiday by yourself?"

"Naw! But me mates are in the hotel room still. They've both got the trots. It's like Delhi Belly, only this being Morocco and all I guess you have to call it something else. It was the bloody couscous and stuff we had in the restaurant last night."

"But you've not got the same problem?" remarked Marla. Her English was always very good, but she had difficulty understanding much more than half of what Paul was saying. She surmised that Paul's friends must have eaten something that disagreed with them.

"Well, yeah! I'm a vegetarian, like, so I didn't have none of the chicken and mutton and stuff. You don't get the trots from vegetables mostly."

"Vegetarian?"

This seemed most unlikely. Most of Marla's vegetarian friends dressed in ways that proclaimed their social conscience that was totally unlike this young man. He didn't look the sort who would relish lentils or organic rice. Marla sympathised. When it was possible, she much preferred her food to be kosher, though halal was acceptable.

"Aye," he said, looking almost embarrassed. "I'm not some sorta hippy, like. Though I smoke blow like the best of them. I dunno why. I just sorta gone off eating meat. I guess I must be soft, me."

"Soft?"

"Aye! Not hard, like. I sorta look at meat and I think about the animals, you know, the sheep and cows and pigs and all. And then I just don't fancy it. So, I must be soft as shite, me."

Marla found this terribly endearing. Although he betrayed a certain degree of boldness by breaking into her reverie in the way he had, there was still something rather shy and awkward about him. He fiddled with the waist of his huge shorts and smiled readily and easily. But his eyes contrived to focus on hers for only as long as it was strictly polite to do so.

"And have you and your friends been travelling around Morocco?"

"Well, not really. We just came for a couple of days in Tangiers. We're going on to Ibiza for the clubs later, but we thought we'd see what Africa's like. But it's not proper Africa, is it? They're all Arabs and the like here. And there's no zebras and elephants and lions and stuff."

"It's still Africa."

"Guess it is. But I'd like to see real Africa some time. You know, go on a safari or something. There's summat about big animals I've always liked."

"And your friends? Do they like animals?"

"Nah! They don't give a fuck about stuff like that. They'd rather smoke blow and drop E and go to nightclubs and dance and stuff. Not that I don't like doing that and all. And they're good mates, like. So what are you doing in Morocco?"

"Touring. Seeing the country."

"Oh! And where've you been?"

"Everywhere," Marla boasted. "Fez. Marrakech. Meknes. Casablanca. Rabat. All over."

"Hoo! You and your mates, like?"

"No, just me."

"Just you? You're by yourself, like?"

Marla nodded. She could see Paul was slightly uncomfortable with that information. He knelt down next to her.

"So, what are these places like? You must be a brave lass to go to all those places."

Marla smiled and gave an account of the places she'd visited, the sights she'd toured, the carpet shops she'd been to. She told him how difficult it was sometimes to shake off the persistent attention of Moroccan men in the Kasbahs and medinas, and how there always seemed to be someone who wanted to be her friend and tour guide. She recounted the ruses she used to escape from their attention, but spluttered when she was sure he used the word 'cunnilingus' in one of his nodded interjections.

"Sorry? What was that?" she asked, for the first time aware that he was in some sense a potential sexual partner.

"You're a canny lass!"

"A what?"

"Canny lass. Smart girl, like. Geordie expression."

"Oh."

Marla was enjoying Paul's attention. She was touched by how, whenever she caught his eyes looking at her in a clearly appraising way, he visibly blushed and looked away. Although he was soft-spoken, Marla wasn't at all sure how much that was to do with his peculiar English dialect or if it would be the same whatever his native tongue.

"Shall we go for a coffee?" she asked.

"A coffee?" wondered Paul, the freckles on his face deepening again with his ready blush. "But I hardly know you, like."

"To a café. There are a few near the Kasbah."

"Oh, in a café. Aye, of course. We've been drinking that weird Moroccan tea. Mint tea. It's reet sweet, like."

"I prefer coffee.Café cassé. Orcafé au lait."

"Yeah. I could do with a cuppa, me."

 They sat outside a café at a table on the pavement. The waiter swivelled the huge parasol so they were both in the shade of the fierce North African sun. Paul seemed ill at ease but insisted on buying the drinks. He struggled with his schoolboy French while the waiter nodded and seemed to understand. Marla couldn't help smiling at his pronunciation, but chose to make no remark.

 "You pay afterwards," she advised him as he fumbled for some dirhams.

"Oh! Of course. Like you do in France and Spain, like."

After the coffees, they wandered into the Kasbah. Marla enjoyed herself as she helped Paul haggle over a scented cedar box that he took a fancy to, easily reducing the cost to about a fifth what was originally requested.

"You're a reet canny lass!" Paul exclaimed.

That expression again. Marla giggled. As she contemplated Paul's startled face she resolved in her mind to take this young man in hand. She had some condoms she'd brought over from Denmark. Perhaps she could find out for sure whether she really was a lesbian. If she was one, why would she find herself so attracted to Paul? She liked his smile. She liked the way he occasionally ran his fingers through his hair to push it off his forehead. She liked his gaucheness and that unforced charm that came from his heart and not his head.

"Have you got a girlfriend, Paul?" she asked as the two of them left the winding claustrophobic maze of stalls and re-emerged into the open square through one of the doorways to the Kasbah.

"A girlfriend? Naw! Not now I haven't. It's not I'm a poof, like. I used to go out with a lass. Trish. Reet bonny lass she was, but we split up months ago. But I've dated a few birds since, like."

"I see," said Marla. She took Paul's hand in hers for the first time, the one that wasn't carrying the plastic bag with the cedar box, the canvas sandals he'd bought for his mam, and the stone carved into the shape of a small bird he'd bought for his sister. He looked genuinely startled, but he squeezed her hand appreciatively.

"I didn't think you..." he said with a hoarse voice. "It wasn't what I was thinking about at all, like..."

"I know," said Marla with a smile, turning round to face him and kissing him tenderly on the lips.

She glanced down to see, even through the baggy thick cotton of his shorts, that her affection was pretty much reciprocated in the way men just couldn't help expressing.

"Are you circumcised?" she asked. At last! She'd managed to ask the question that had been increasingly troubling her.

"Circumcised?" Paul asked. "Does it bother you, like? I know a lot of lasses don't like a bloke to be circumcised. How did you guess?"

"So, you are circumcised?"

"You're reet clivver, aren't you? I didn't think anyone could spot things like that. Is it the way I walk, like?"

"No. No. It's not that."

"I don't know why my parents did it. I s'pose they thought there were good medical reasons for it, like. Penile cancer or whatever. Trish didn't mind, but one lass I knew, she really hated it."

"She did?"

"She said it was reet off-putting. Is that what you think, Marla?"

"No, not at all," said Marla, kissing Paul rather more vigorously on the lips. She kept her tongue behind her lips and was gratified to see Paul's lips part in obvious anticipation. "In fact, I prefer it that way."

"You do?"

"I'm staying at a small hotel here. The Hotel Atlantic it's called, although all I can see from the window is a shop selling gas bottles and a broken-down bus. It's not far at all."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Erm. Shouldn't we go to a chemist first?"

"Chemist?"

"Get some johnnies, like."

"Johnnies?" Marla wondered, falling in love with Paul's obvious embarrassment.

"Condoms. You know. Be on the safe side."

"No. I'm quite well prepared."

Paul laughed with evident relief. "You're a real canny lass!" he said, squeezing her hand tight.

That expression again! Marla laughed and reciprocated his grip, tempted to put her other hand on the bulge she could see under his shorts. But no! Not in the open air. Not in Morocco.

She could sense Paul's nervousness as she walked with him past the reception desk of the old French hotel and made their way up the ancient crumbling staircase to her room on the second floor. She squeezed his hand, only letting go to fumble for the key to her room she kept in her shoulder bag.

Once inside, before there was any chance of Paul's amour abating, she turned round and pushed her lips against his, this time letting her mouth open to admit his tongue. It was a much nicer tasting kiss than the one she'd last enjoyed with Phillippa. There was none of that overwhelming stench of nicotine that almost put her off on that occasion. She relished the slight roughness of his facial stubble on her chin. Now she thought about it, the lack of stubble was just one of the many things about Sapphic love that both attracted and slightly bothered her.

Paul was certainly no virgin, but he was still relatively awkward. When he focused on just kissing, he became much more assured, but she noticed he kept his eyes closed as if he was imagining she was someone else. That was understandable. That was something she used to do when she started having sex with other people after her year-long relationship with Knut finally came to its messy end. Paul was still recovering from the end of his relationship with the Trish he'd alluded to.

Paul was clearly uncertain how to bring his expression of passion to the next phase and Marla's jaw began to ache from the effort of kissing. She was sure she knew all she needed to know about Paul's fillings and the slight chip on his lower incisor. She eased her teeth onto his tongue and bit it slightly.

"Yow!" Paul said, pulling his face off hers.

"Take your clothes off, Paul," Marla commanded.

"Now?"

"Well, of course. Don't worry. I'll take mine off too."

"Oh! Okay!"

Paul pulled off his tee-shirt and shorts to reveal the very amusing boxer shorts he wore emblazoned with cartoon pictures from South Park. Marla divested herself rather more speedily and tossed her clothes on the armchair. She was careful that they shouldn't land on the floor where cockroaches could crawl inside them.

Paul hesitated and looked around the room for the first time before finally pulling down his boxer shorts, his penis so obviously stirring inside.

"You've got a real bonny room. Much nicer than the one I'm sharing with me mates."

"Never mind the room," said Marla, slightly impatiently and lying on the bed, totally nude, one knee raised and her other leg stretched out. "Off with your pants!"

"You're a reet bonny lass!" exclaimed Paul, finally raising his eyes from his discarded boxer shorts and for the first time really exploring Marla's body. She was pleased to see that Paul's remark didn't seem at all rehearsed.

"Bonny?" asked Marla, not knowing but guessing it meant the same as the French wordbonne.

"Beautiful!" Paul said, slightly melting as if frightened this unexpected opportunity for sex might yet pass him by. "Bonny is Geordie for beautiful."

"And you're a 'bonny' man yourself, Paul!" Marla reassured him, stretching her arms out to grab him to her bosom.

Their lovemaking was clumsy and fumbling to begin with. Paul had none of the self-assurance either of Phillippa or of many of the men whom Marla had made love to. But as he gradually became more confident, he became more fluid and passionate, his mouth exploring her breasts and shoulders, his teeth nibbling her ear, while below his erect penis prodded against Marla's thighs hesitant as to whether he should enter.

He leaned back, raising his head with a broad grin, his eyes open wide and staring into Marla's and his fingers probing around in the hair between her legs.

"Hoo! You're reet wet, lass!" Paul exclaimed, a finger probing Marla's vagina, his thumb pressing on her clitoris.

Marla grabbed the sealed condom she had remembered to place close at hand on the bedside table and passed it over to Paul. "And you're very hard, Paul."

"Hard! Aye! I am that!" Paul said with a smile, unwrapping the condom and with practised skill tugging it over his glans. He squeezed the nipple as he stretched the prophylactic over a penis that Marla was pleased to see was amongst the largest she'd seen in real life. And circumcised too, as Marla was delighted to confirm.

At first, Marla was also anxious as Paul thrust in and out of her. Would she enjoy heterosexual sex again? Was she now a changed woman? Gradually, as Paul became more focused on the moment, she too became less and less worried and relished the very different sensation of a man's lovemaking. It was less tactile and more carnal than a woman's as he surrendered to a rhythm that was not of his choosing. A man might not have the intimate insight of how a woman might feel, as Phillippa clearly had, but his role from an opposite direction, not really understanding the pleasure he was giving, and perhaps slightly guilty at the pleasure he received, was a role with which Marla felt comfortable. It was like putting on an old jumper after trying out a new sweater and remembering again what it was she used to like about it. Not perfect, but somehow more comfy and reassuring.

Paul wasn't a bad lover. His relationship with Trish had certainly taught him respect for a woman's feelings. He resisted not once, but more than once, the spurt of ejaculation Marla could feel ready to explode within the condom's nipple inside her, slowing down his thrusts before the critical moment. He was appreciative of her own rhythm which gradually grew as her reservations about heterosexual love dissipated, and soon gave vent to the small gasps and shudders that denoted to her not orgasm exactly, but something near enough for her to be satisfied.