Lost in Medina

By Barclay Totten

Copyright ©2025

They were listening now to "Nowhere Man," and it occurred to him that it was almost as if she were speaking to him. Suddenly, a question came out of his mouth, "You think I am Nowhere Man?"

"I think you lost in medina, Jake," she replied. 

"How did you know?" he returned. He couldn't believe what came from Lalla's mouth. She had evidently known all the time that he was lost. To think that he had almost convinced himself that everything was under control. He would never again underestimate the keen sensibilities of the souks and his readability in a foreign land. "I know from your eyes," she continued. "You need find way out." She smiled one of those "I see you" type smiles and turned toward the kitchen, looking out of the corner of her eye, waiting for a response.

"I didn't know you could tell. Why didn't you help me?"

Lalla kept walking toward the kitchen, "I want you." So now he knew from her mouth what he had known all along. He stood there in amazement, and Rubber Soul kept drumming out its Western rhythms. 

Lalla went to the kitchen and brought out two beautiful long-stemmed crystal wine glasses filled with Rose wine. Jake felt the chill of the glass as he took it in his hand and again noted that she had refrigeration, another rare commodity for most.

They both took a drink almost simultaneously. And then something happened most unexpectedly. Lalla put down her wine, unbuttoned her blouse, and brought his fingers between her breasts. He felt his groin stiffen and his mouth grow dry. Her breasts were warm and soft - a perfect nest for his fingers. They enclosed him and enveloped him. He then knew that this encounter would not be a mad, passionate disrobing followed by a dash for the genitals, commonly seen between new lovers. Their attraction would be a measured demonstration of technique and skill. She would show him that she was just as worldly as he, which he wanted.

Jake also knew that Lalla needed to be touched. The way she pulled his hand into the cleavage of her breasts. It was as though she needed to know that someone wanted to touch her. It was hard for him to believe that a woman as beautiful as she had any difficulty in being touched by men. But she took his hand as a starving person would grab for a piece of bread. She embedded his fingers more deeply as though she couldn't possibly wait, giving him cause to pause and consider carefully what venturing beyond only friendship could mean. But he decided to ignore his premonitions. He would see where this went.

He smiled and wiggled his fingers slowly while taking a deep breath. "Lalla, relax," he said, as much to himself, while beginning to remove his hand. 

"I not dumb girl from village," she replied. "I know Americans, but I no whore. I like Americans. Women free. I like free."

"I can see that in your room," he answered. The guitar music played on.

Lalla opened her mouth and took a deep breath between full lips. There was a hint of rouge on her lips and cheeks. It was then that Jake came to the full realization that she was a complete living being. Not just another person with whom communication was taking place.

Jake had begun to love her, not for her abundant physical accommodations but for her sense of irreverence. Here was the true American spirit – a rebel.

The driving rhythm of the Beatles began to soak in, making Jake a part of the beat. He was no longer in Tunisia, and this girl was no Tunisian. They were both encapsulated in a timeless act of animalism that neither controlled. As if some unseen power suspended all conception of reason and rational thinking until an indefinite time in the future when it would be possible to resume life again like ordinary people in an ordinary world. 

"Your lips are moving, I cannot hear," went the song. And so, Lalla and her thoughts were barred from Jake even though her warm throbbing mass demanded his full consciousness and deliberation.

Jake took another big sip of wine and then put down his wine glass, "I want you, Lalla."

"Yes, me too," she replied.

As Lalla impatiently began sliding up his pullover, Jake began to unbutton her blouse. She placed her hand on his chest, burying her fingers in his hair. He moved his hands from her blouse, which had been unbuttoned, exposing the brassier beneath. Then, to her round face, slipping them to the back of her head with his fingers supporting the base of the skull. He wondered if anyone had ever held her head this way. He took his index fingers and rotated them in a circular pattern on the nape of the neck. She swooned backward with a total shift of her body, bringing her hips and his hips together. She placed one hand on his butt while grasping his chest hair with the other. He felt her whole being reacting to the circular finger motions. Her eyes closed, and her mouth opened. He felt her hips pressing into his. Her legs began to open with the softness in between them, seeking out the hardness in between his.

Echoes of fear returned to Jake again, echoing like a shout of anguish into a canyon. "I'm afraid," he said, losing the focus he had with her. He realized the source of the fear. He had his money belt on with cash and passport, not to mention the money in his wallet. "Was this just a scam to rip off his cash and passport?" he thought. He had heard of wallets and passports being stolen by bizness workers in Tunisia. His body stiffened. He felt his face begin to sweat. His hands grew cold. 

"Why?" she asked.

"Your family mad about you and me?" Jake said as he momentarily skirted his thoughts of the money belt so that he could think. Did he trust her enough to take off his shirt and let her see this? What would he do while they made love? Would he ever see his passport again? He knew that they were worth a lot on the black market.

"No worry. Nothing happen," Lalla said in a gentle, soothing way that again acted as a healing salve. He knew that there was some truth to this. Berber women were customarily independent and the captains of their sexual involvement. But he was assuming a lot. It was hard for him to believe that nothing would happen, especially with the cash and passport in his money belt. Something always happens, and he hoped he was not making a big mistake.

To keep the thought away was all he could do, but he felt it in his flesh that something was going to happen. But he had to decide to trust her, and he didn't like to be over a barrel.

Black onyx eyes looked back at Jake as he held Lalla's head, his fingers enmeshed within her black curly hair. He looked at the details of her irises, which were strips of dark olive-brown interspersed with flecks of grey. Never had he seen such eyes. He uselessly tried to fathom the mystery of the thoughts behind the biological components of iris, pupil, and white. 

With thumbs lying on her temples, Jake began to rotate them. Lalla tilted back her head, again opened her mouth, and groaned. It was a groan that he had never heard a woman utter, but he was to listen to it many times that day. He imagined it to be a groan deep from her abdomen - guttural and coarse - perhaps from the cradle of life itself—the place in her and in all men, which yearns for a moment of relief.

As Lalla's mouth opened, Jake bent over and sealed his lips on hers. He felt her whole body pressed against his, and her arms pulled him into herself. Like two snakes in the darkness of night, their tongues found each other. They became one in a ceaseless movement of discovery - the embodiment of the ageless primal urges of survival and reproduction – his the manifestation of dominance, strength, and protection – hers the tongue of the ancient world with its palate of rich tagines, couscous, and cumin – his the appetite of meat and potatoes, fast food fats and sugars of the western world. An image of a young village girl came into his mind but was erased when she opened her mouth wide and gave him everything he gave her and more. In her mouth, he felt the scream of her ancestors that led their men into war.

The mouth of ancient Africa that spoke a language in the beginnings of men, the mouth that still was a master of its fate. The mouth that with viciousness commanded armies and now, with that same mercilessness, demanded the tributes of love.

About Barclay Totten:

"Many years ago, I published poetry, but my focus is now on prose. I have two pieces previously published in Bare Back Magazine. Currently, I host a short story collection at tottentales.wordpress.com."