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In my story “Summer of ’76 in the Nurses Home,” I mentioned at the end that I went off to nurse in hot spots and war zones.So here I was, sitting in the shade of summer vines in the Beka’a Valley with a young woman, Safiya, telling me;”Il y a beaucoup des veuves de guerre dans notre villages; je suis seul, moi-meme.” That is; “There are many war widows in our village, I am on my own myself.”I was working in a hospital in the village of Chtoura, after a difficult, challenging year in the main hospital in West Beirut (I had better not name it, but anyone with a passing knowledge of the region will know where I mean.)Dr Cretien El Mais had offered me and Ene-Liis, my companion and colleague, jobs in his hospital in the beautiful Beka’a Valley. I as Head Nurse (chef de service des infermiere) and Ene-Liis chef de sages-femme; head of Midwifery.Ene-Liis şişli escort was from Tallin in Soviet-era Estonia who had escaped by means of a nurse and midwife education exchange scheme to, of all places; a hospital in the Yorkshire Dales. So, relieved to escape the war ravaged city, we accepted his offer. I was glad too to escape the supposed scandal of me being suspected of being an IRA spy or PLO liaison person by the British I’ve forgotten so much!)Safiya is, if you can imagine, a blue eyed, black haired beauty with a figure like a Sofia Loren who has toiled in the fields. Strong, tanned, muscled and intensely womanly. In fact, she bore more than a passing resemblance to the great Italian beauty, I realised.”Maurice knows I like you. He understands that I have not had a man since my husband was killed.””But Safiya, I shouldn’t be alone with mecidiyeköy escort you! Nor should you be stroking my groin like that! I, you, we, could be killed by your family for this!””Non, non, amant, here in the Shouf mountains we are not Arabic, we are the descendents of Iskander of Macedon’s generals and the Phoenicians and later the Romans. Since the mists of those times, it is us, the women, who hold sway here! Always we choose our husbands. And lovers!”Safiya’s almond shaped blue eyes were fringed by dark sweeping lashes; they now held my gaze in thrall. “Your pale skin is so beautiful, Alan. I have never seen skin so fair. Or hair so red; it is like flames in the sun.”I think it was her who kissed me first, it didn’t matter. In moments we were entwined, mouth and body.Safiya was loosening her clothing and pulling at mine.”But here?” I gasped.”No one will come! I must have votre bitte!” I was taken aback at her frank use of the slang for ‘cock.’ No subdued and chaste woman was she!What was a randy Irishman to do? Safiya emerged from her long black skirt and colourful embroidered top with surprising ease. She had skin of pale gold and with a thick patch of dark pubic hair as well as tufted airpits. She smelled of fresh soap and fresher feminine sweat. I wrapped my arms around her as our mouths reconnected, frantically entwining tongues. Clearly, French kissing had long been assimilated along with the language among these people.I caressed Safiya’s magnificent breasts. They were full and heavy and when I enclosed her large stiff nipple in my mouth she writhed, moaned and pressed my head into her chest. Then she reached down and felt my stiff cock, through the light linen material of my trousers. I stood up in the sun-dappled shade of burgeoning spring vine leaves with Safiya kneeling, licking her lips expectantly before me.
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