The story is true; only a couple of minor details have been changed to protect the identity of the individual in question; if you have any comments or similar experiences feel free to contact me at ghstwrldfan@hotmail.com.
--Paul
Reza (or so I'll call him) was a fellow student at the university where I studied as an undergraduate. He was several years older than me, in his late twenties or early thirties, and attended school part-time while he worked to support himself. I first met him while working at the campus library. He was a few inches taller than me (about 6' 0"), had a sturdy build and was clean shaven with a thinning head of curly black hair. His light brown skin was perhaps only a shade or two darker than mine. He usually left the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a nice carpeting of black hair; he also tended to wear a rather heavy dose of cologne, which in his case for some reason I found it appealing.
When I asked him where he was from, he said with some reluctance that he was from Iran. Apparently most Americans treated him differently once they learned he was from a "terrorist country." I was intrigued since I hadn't met anyone from Iran before, and I proceeded to ask him all sorts of questions about his past and about Iranian culture in general. As a member of the political opposition to the current fundamentalist regime, Reza had received political asylum to come to the U.S. At one point, there were even threats against his life, he said. He was a Moslem, though not terribly observant. He loved poetry and introduced me to the works of Rumi; I in turn introduced him to American poets such as Walt Whitman.
After he quit the library, I lost touch with him for the next few years and didn't run into him again until my last semester before graduation. I was still working in the library and found him in the stacks while I was shelving books. He seemed pleased to meet me and we took each others' phone numbers. He was still not completely fluent, but he spoke much better English than when I first met him.
That spring, we started to hang out together regularly. We'd drink beer and talk all evening or listen to music; once he relaxed he became fairly affectionate with me, leaning against me while we talked or even resting a hand on my leg. I wanted to go to bed with him but was unsure how to approach him after reading all the stories about the persecution of homosexuals in Iran. I wasn't even sure if I should tell him that was gay, since I had heard that the Iranian-American community was extremely conservative. Still, it was nice just to spend time with him. When I told him I was still interested in Persian poetry he read some Rumi to me in the original Farsi so I could appreciate its musicality. I lent him one of my English translations so he could compare it to the original; I was curious as to how faithful the translation was. One evening I went to a bar with him and a couple of his other Iranian friends; he got drunk and made a complete ass out of himself, hitting on an unattractive, middle-aged woman who wasn't even interested.
Once the weather was warm enough, I invited him swimming. If I couldn't have sex with him, I could at least admire his body from afar. I biked over to his place where we spent the afternoon; that evening we drove back to my apartment, since my complex had a heated pool and a jacuzzi. I was not disappointed seeing him in swimming trunks; he had told me that he liked to work out, but his entire body was quite muscular. And hairy--his legs, arms, chest, even his shoulders were covered in coarse black hair. But by now the hair on his chest had become quite gray.
"You have quite a build," I said. "I should start working out like you."
Reza thanked me for the compliment, but quickly changed the subject. I sat across from him in the jacuzzi, so I could admire his well-toned and furry chest discreetly.
"Guess what? I became an American citizen last week."
"Congratulations! You never even told me you were applying."
"I didn't want to say anything in case I didn't pass."
"We should celebrate--I'll take you out to dinner someday," I said. "Now that you're a citizen are you going to vote in the elections this November?"
"Of course I am."
"What party are you going to vote for--Democrat or Republican?"
"Republican. What about you?"
"Democrat. I have to admit, I really dislike a lot of the Republican Party's policies."
"Like what?"
"Their policies toward gays for instance."
Reza paused.
"Do you mind if I ask you something? Promise you won't get angry?"
"I promise. Ask me anything you want." I knew exactly what he was going to ask.
"Are you a Gay?"
"Actually, I am. Does it bother you?"
"I'm not sure; I just never met a gay before."
"I'll bet you have. There are plenty of gay people in Iran, they just can't tell anyone about it."
"You may be right. I thought maybe one of my friends in Iran was that way."
The conversation drifted back toward politics for a while, then it was time for him to go home. Oh well, I thought, so much for that. We drove back to his place, where I had left my bicycle. During the ride home he took a deep breath and said:
"Can I ask you something else? Promise you won't get angry?"
"I promise, Reza. You can ask me anything."
"Do you want to have sex?"
My heart temporarily stopped.
"Of course I want to," I said hoarsely.
We parked in the lot in back of his apartment. It was almost completely dark--I could see only his silhouette.
"You can touch it if you want," he said.
I reached into his sweatpants and found that he wasn't wearing anything underneath. His cock felt hot to the touch; it was already hard and it was quite large, from what I could tell.
"Do you want to suck it?" he whispered.
"Not here; someone might see us."
"My roommate might be home now," he said.
We entered his apartment to find that all the lights were out. His roommate was out for evening. Inside his bedroom, I sat in the chair by his desk while he unrolled his bedding--a sleeping bag, some blankets and pillows. He had never used a Western-style bed back in Iran, he explained once; he he had tried it once here but it made his back hurt. He then took a jar of vaseline out his desk and set it on the bedding.
"Come here," he said nervously, standing over the bedding. He struggled to take off his t-shirt and tossed it on the floor; I ran my hand through the hair in his chest while he pulled down his sweatpants, his erect cock springing at attention. I was astonished at the size of his member, the largest I had ever seen in person--it must have been at least 8" and was fairly thick as well--circumcised, of course, since he was Muslim. It was also perfectly proportioned--the sort of thing you see only in porno movies. His pubic hair and balls were trimmed clean of any hair--a man from Pakistan whom I dated later said that was common practice in Moslem countries; it was considered more hygenic. I also took off my clothes before kneeling down in front of him. For a moment I admired his entire muscled and hairy body, wrapping my hand around his cock and slowly stroking it with my right hand. My hand could barely reach around it.
"You're huge," I said to him. "I don't know if I can fit that thing in my mouth."
"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked. "I have some vaseline."
"No, that'll be even more difficult," I said. "Besides, I don't have a condom."
Still grasping the shaft with my right hand, I licked around the head, savoring the slightly salty taste at the very tip. When I tried to take the entire cock in my mouth, I felt as if my jaw would split. To make matters worse, he roughly shoved my head with both his hands down onto his cock, making me choke. I tried to continue deep-throating him, but I couldn't even breathe. I don't think it was so much that he was trying to be rough so much as it may have been his first time, in spite of his age. Finally, I lifted my head up and told him that he needed to relax, that he shouldn't try to force me down on him. He apologized and pushed down more gently, just to indicate the rhythm he wanted. My jaw still hurt, but at least now it had become more bearable. Occasionally I lifted my head up again to admire his cock once more, to tickle just underneath the head with my tongue or to lick up and down the entire shaft. With my free hand I reached over and scooped up some vaseline and started to stroke myself lightly with my free hand while I continued to fellate him. I got really turned on by the whole thing and was about ready to come when he reached down and grasped my left hand, asking me to pull down on his balls while I fellated him with my right hand wrapped around the shaft.
By now he had stopped pushing down on my head and simply rested his hands on my shoulders, occasionally running his hands through my hair. I increased the pace and intensity of stimulation, and shortly afterwards he began to moan sofly. Being a visually oriented person, I wanted to lift my head away and watch him cum, but suddenly a couple warm jets of cum shot into my mouth, which was already strained to the limit by his massive cock. It was all I could do not to cough it up. His cum had a slightly bitter taste but I enjoyed it anyway. I lifted my head back and stroked his cock slowly with my right hand, watching the cum ooze out of the slit in his head and drip down my hand. After I milked out the last drops of semen and his cock started to soften, he pulled away and began to towel himself off. I lay down and jerked myself off while I admired his body, staring up at his cock and running my free hand up and down his hairy leg, reaching orgasm quickly. Without exchanging a word, we put on our clothes.
As I headed out the front door to unlock my bicycle and ride home he said in a grave voice, "We must never do anything like that again. We must never even talk about it."
"OK, if that's what you want," I said.
I saw him only a couple more times before I left town to start grad school. Although he was still relatively friendly, I could sense a new distance on his part. I've since lost touch with him. I still occasionally fantasize about him, it is always mixed with feelings of sadness.