The Last Living Slut Read Online Free PDF

walking up to me one by one as I lay naked on a dirt road. They each leaned over and looked at my body, admiring it and wanting me. I got a funny feeling in my tummy when I thought of that. A dangerous, powerful explosion washed over my little body and made me feel like a queen. A feeling of urgency overwhelmed me. So I put my hands in my panties and touched myself where it throbbed. I had found a secret and it would take me to a place of ethereal and majestic beauty—my beautiful secret world. I felt higher than anyone else. I felt invincible.
    All my first cousins were boys. They teased and chased me constantly, and I began to love it more and more. They were the first people I’d found whom I could actually seek out to receive male attention. I began dressing deliberately in my best girlie clothes, swaying my hips and flirting as I walked out on the street to play. I had a huge crush on the slightly older twin boys who lived next door. In my attempts to get them to like me and want me, I did what worked: I acted coy and needy, even though I was really quite a tomboy.
    One summer afternoon, while all the adults slept, I asked the twins to teach me to tie my shoelaces. I sat at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the second floor of our house, and slid up my skirt to reveal my bare legs. As they stood over me, I lifted one leg up to them so they would see all the way up to the top of my thigh. Then, slowly, they taught me to tie my laces. Their skin felt hot on mine. And I felt loved.

Chapter 8
    He Shows Me Cartoons and Takes Me Places. My Dad never does that. And so I gave Him Sex in Return.
    I walked up the massive jaw of stone gray steps. Up, up, to the second floor. Looking down, I saw my candy-pink nail-varnished toenails poking through my plastic slippers. Still I carried on, my heart beating with excitement and the dirty shame of the duty I had to perform. I was a bad girl. I would go to hell. Definitely. I was five years old.
    The man was renting the apartment from my grandmother. He was single and full of energy. He had thick black-rug hair and was playful with me. His name was Mr. Karimi. I played with him all the time. In the afternoons, he let me ride in his white Peykan car, which shook and prattled, the engine’s wet purring guzzling greedily around the sunny, sleeping neighborhood.
    My grandmother was sleeping downstairs. My mummy was at work at the university. I couldn’t wait till she came back with the duck bread. I wanted to go outside. I was dying to steal some fruit from the neighbor’s persimmon tree. The fat bellies of the pregnant fruit were ready to burst. I wanted to pick monkey flowers with the other girls and chase the twin boys next door.
    I didn’t know why I liked Mr. Karimi. His room was dark and he prayed all the time. I didn’t understand why. He always said I should pray with him, and sometimes I did. I loved the smell of the Mohr. It smelled like the heavenly damp clay of the rain-soaked ground. I loved the safe feeling of throwing the slippery chador around my head and body, and I loved praying to God. It was peaceful. I’d learned all the prayers by heart, but only the shorter children’s versions.
    Karimi finished praying and smiled at me. Then he called me into the room. A golliwog sat on the shelf with a big head full of tight, black curls. Its puffed-up lips were like two sausages, and it had a pair of bulging eyes inside a nodding head. Karimi turned the wall projector on. It was Bugs Bunny. He drew the curtains shut and closed the door, then locked it with a key. In the silence I heard only the warm humming of the projector and the thumping of my heart.
    Karimi sat me on his lap facing the wall. On the screen, Bugs Bunny jumped up and down like a demented yo-yo. I love cartoons. Karimi must like me. He let me watch them because he liked the special place between my legs, the soft, squishy place where I weed from. His fingers felt too thick and there were too many of