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We were soon past the last of the abandoned villages where old women in colourful headscarves once sat at the roadside, large glass jars of honey laid out for sale on rickety tables. The sun was now high in the sky, it was too hot to go on walking. But we did. We stopped by a stream to refill our water bottles.
“Ararat is a volcano” I said.
“I know” he said.
“Are you going to make it erupt?” I smiled coquettishly, tugged gently at the hairs on his chest.
“Yes” he said, taking his gorgeous erection into his hand. And I knew I was close to my personal Ararat.
We continued up stony tracks, which grew ever steeper. We passed the treeline and were soon on the summit ridge. The end was near, on a summer day where snows still lay on the summit, and we had left the heat behind with the crumbling houses, the honey, the history that should divide us even as we were joined in the snows of Ararat, my soft Armenian mouth taking his hard, veined Turkish cock with gentleness, sucking, licking, flicking with my tongue, making it swell some more until I feel his body stiffen. He arches his back, he is ready to come but he will not come yet. He must make the volcano erupt. I take it deeper into my mouth, this forbidden cock, that tastes so good, tastes so good.
I am a child of the diaspora. I have never been to Armenia, but have imagined many Armenias, many Ararats, my imagination stirred by the stories my Grandmother told me. I longed to climb Mount Ararat, rub its…
