[Continued from I Am Wanting You A Lot (Part 1)]
At five minutes before nine, I excused myself from a multicultural card game and headed outside for a “walk.” It was chilly, and I hugged myself, bouncing in place while I waited. Yellow light and variously accented voices spilled from the windows behind me into the hazy darkness. At three minutes past, a car pulled up, and I hopped in the passenger side.
“Iye Akşam,” I said.
“Iye Akşam!” Tarkan answered with a piercing glance as he drove ahead into the night. We made fragmented smalltalk, and I watched the headlights illuminate colorless patches of dry pasture on either side of the gravel road. He began to speak, in simple words, about his broken relations with his wife, and with their religion, Islam. I noted the lines in his face, between his eyebrows, framing his mouth, a hint of crow’s feet at the eyes. I’d learned how to ask one’s age the day before. Tarkan was thirty-three, and I was “yirmi iki:” twenty-two.
He broke off talking, and in the pause my heart beat louder and faster as I formulated a question.
“Tarkan… benden hoşlanıyor musun?” Do you like me?
“Evet!” he replied, simply. Yes. We pulled over to a flat, grassy shoulder, and he turned to look at me in the car’s dim light. “You are so beautiful.”
He kissed first my cheek, and I felt the scratchiness of his. Then lips, opened, a touch of soft tongue, warm breath with hints of tobacco and chai. Our seatbelts were off, and he leaned into me, one hand groping my breast, finding its way between skin and bra.
After much frantic kissing, and attempting to bring our bodies closer together while remaining in the front seat of the car, we wordlessly clambered across to the back. He helped me out of my flannel, lifted my shirt over my head, and seemed to unhook my bra in the same fluid movement. That tossed aside, my breasts felt full and perky in the chill air, my nipples firm and alert. He rewarded them with kisses and caresses with his tongue, a squeeze, a nibble, a suck. I felt magnetized, with an epicenter between my legs that drew me onwards.
I lifted up his cotton t-shirt, revealing a hard, trim abdomen and a happy trail of soft black hairs connecting the soft patch on his chest to an unknown source below the jeans. I kissed those abs, and felt a rippling in them, an excitement that traveled the length of his core. He finished removing his upper layers and we regarded each other for a moment, a shadowy shirtless farmer looming over the topless girl in the backseat of his car.
“Seni istiyorum,” I whispered. “Seni istiyorum çok!” I am wanting you a lot!
If he had the urge to laugh at my broken Turkish, it didn’t show. I unzipped his pants, tugged them down with his boxers, and gave a few cursory licks to the fully erect organ in front of me. I sucked, he stroked my hair, we freed ourselves from the last of our clothing and went at it.
I felt the weight of him, thrusting from above. I closed my eyes and ghost-images of cows from the days passed flashed before me until they were drowned out by physical sensation, rhythm, pure color. We switched it up, I straddled him and bounced, he gazed up at me in bliss. His calloused, hard-working hand slapped my ass, and my high-pitched yelp made him grin. With inspiration he pushed me back down on the seat, increased our momentum, brought it to breaking point. I climaxed as he did, pulsing around him in successive, subsiding waves.
Our trysts continued for another week, sometimes in the car, sometimes in an unused bottling shed with a bare mattress in the corner. My Turkish improved, but only a little. I could coordinate meeting times, express pleasure and desire, and chat about bovines and milk. When it was time for me to leave the farm, Tarkan and I didn’t hug or exchange any words, but his deep-set eyes pierced mine with one last jolt of pleasure.