surface is lovely and shimmers with golden tones.
Asma's pink palace is perched on the shoreline of the Red Sea. Earlier she announced that several royals are neighbors. When I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see that Asma's small garden is dotted with blooming flowers and swaying palm trees. I am in a desert kingdom but I could be in sultry Hawaii.
I wait in the windowed sitting room for Asma to make her grand entrance.
An hour later Asma glides dramatically through the doorway. Her beauty is so exquisite that she could and should forgo cosmetic assistance. But her makeup is heavily applied. Her dark-lidded eyes bring to mind the beauty of Elizabeth Taylor in the movie Cleopatra . Her black hair is pulled back on one side and adorned with a jeweled rose. A ruby-and-diamond necklace matches her ruby earrings and two diamond bracelets. She has replaced three diamond rings with two of the largest ruby rings I've ever seen.
Although she is a mentally bright woman, Asma clearly uses her beauty rather than her mind as the instrument to keep her husband happy.
From what I have learned in life, the opposite approach is more often successful. While most men are first drawn to physical beauty, such an attraction does not last without a more engaging peg on which a man can hang his hat, or in this case, his ghutrah .
I nod in admiration. "You look gorgeous."
Her red lips curve in satisfaction. "You will learn good lessons tonight, Jean." She places her hands on her hips. "I am the best teacher. I will teach you how to get a man and how to keep a man."
I suppress my smile. "All right, then."
"Do you like this dress? A French designer made only one. For me."
"It's extraordinary," I truthfully tell her.
Asma's scoop-necked ball gown is a burst of red. The costly dress rises to her knees in the front, cascades longer in the back, and terminates in a ruffled train that flows behind. When she uses her hands to lift her breasts into shocking prominence, I see that her perfectly manicured fingernails match the color of her red lips.
"Khalid loves this dress," she assures me. "He likes me to tease him with my breasts." She laughs. "Of course, I can only wear such a dress if there are no other men present." She tightens her lips and emphasizes with her index finger. "My Khalid is very jealous, you know."
"Yes, you told me."
"He likes for me to be tall, as well," she explains, atop three-inch high-heeled gold shoes that raise her five-seven height to a tall woman of five-ten.
I sigh. This Saudi beauty will tower over my five-two form. High heels hurt my feet. I'd given them up a few years back.
The door opens and Khalid appears.
I'm instantly disappointed. Khalid has small brown eyes, a sharp nose, plump cheeks, and a double chin. He's shorter than his wife, who jolts me with her high-pitched greeting.
"Khalid!"
I've never seen a woman rush toward a man with such enthusiasm. The scene reminds me of a rodeo rider rushing to the prize steer.
Khalid appears taken aback by his wife's energetic greeting. Light of foot, he nimbly takes a few steps backwards.
She gushes, "Khalid, my husband, I have given strict orders to the servants. No hands but mine will care for you on this night."
With that, she jerks Khalid's cloth headdress ( ghutrah ) and the black cord that holds it down ( agal ) off his head.
The poor man covers his baldness with his ghutrah and now looks momentarily embarrassed in front of a stranger.
While waving his headdress, she gaily asks, "What does my strong protector wish to drink?"
Towering over her husband, she gives me a knowing look, winking and smiling.
Using the lure of her beautiful face and lush body, Asma then swings her body around and in front of her husband, ensuring that he can easily see her cleavage.
With a lift of his brows, Khalid looks away.
She's wasting those huge breasts, I think to myself.
"Ah, Khalid, where are my manners? This is my American friend. The Jean I told you
Asma's pink palace is perched on the shoreline of the Red Sea. Earlier she announced that several royals are neighbors. When I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see that Asma's small garden is dotted with blooming flowers and swaying palm trees. I am in a desert kingdom but I could be in sultry Hawaii.
I wait in the windowed sitting room for Asma to make her grand entrance.
An hour later Asma glides dramatically through the doorway. Her beauty is so exquisite that she could and should forgo cosmetic assistance. But her makeup is heavily applied. Her dark-lidded eyes bring to mind the beauty of Elizabeth Taylor in the movie Cleopatra . Her black hair is pulled back on one side and adorned with a jeweled rose. A ruby-and-diamond necklace matches her ruby earrings and two diamond bracelets. She has replaced three diamond rings with two of the largest ruby rings I've ever seen.
Although she is a mentally bright woman, Asma clearly uses her beauty rather than her mind as the instrument to keep her husband happy.
From what I have learned in life, the opposite approach is more often successful. While most men are first drawn to physical beauty, such an attraction does not last without a more engaging peg on which a man can hang his hat, or in this case, his ghutrah .
I nod in admiration. "You look gorgeous."
Her red lips curve in satisfaction. "You will learn good lessons tonight, Jean." She places her hands on her hips. "I am the best teacher. I will teach you how to get a man and how to keep a man."
I suppress my smile. "All right, then."
"Do you like this dress? A French designer made only one. For me."
"It's extraordinary," I truthfully tell her.
Asma's scoop-necked ball gown is a burst of red. The costly dress rises to her knees in the front, cascades longer in the back, and terminates in a ruffled train that flows behind. When she uses her hands to lift her breasts into shocking prominence, I see that her perfectly manicured fingernails match the color of her red lips.
"Khalid loves this dress," she assures me. "He likes me to tease him with my breasts." She laughs. "Of course, I can only wear such a dress if there are no other men present." She tightens her lips and emphasizes with her index finger. "My Khalid is very jealous, you know."
"Yes, you told me."
"He likes for me to be tall, as well," she explains, atop three-inch high-heeled gold shoes that raise her five-seven height to a tall woman of five-ten.
I sigh. This Saudi beauty will tower over my five-two form. High heels hurt my feet. I'd given them up a few years back.
The door opens and Khalid appears.
I'm instantly disappointed. Khalid has small brown eyes, a sharp nose, plump cheeks, and a double chin. He's shorter than his wife, who jolts me with her high-pitched greeting.
"Khalid!"
I've never seen a woman rush toward a man with such enthusiasm. The scene reminds me of a rodeo rider rushing to the prize steer.
Khalid appears taken aback by his wife's energetic greeting. Light of foot, he nimbly takes a few steps backwards.
She gushes, "Khalid, my husband, I have given strict orders to the servants. No hands but mine will care for you on this night."
With that, she jerks Khalid's cloth headdress ( ghutrah ) and the black cord that holds it down ( agal ) off his head.
The poor man covers his baldness with his ghutrah and now looks momentarily embarrassed in front of a stranger.
While waving his headdress, she gaily asks, "What does my strong protector wish to drink?"
Towering over her husband, she gives me a knowing look, winking and smiling.
Using the lure of her beautiful face and lush body, Asma then swings her body around and in front of her husband, ensuring that he can easily see her cleavage.
With a lift of his brows, Khalid looks away.
She's wasting those huge breasts, I think to myself.
"Ah, Khalid, where are my manners? This is my American friend. The Jean I told you
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