Lovemaking with him was lust pure and simple, bordering on obsession. At 21, I thought I knew a thing or two about sex, but nothing in my prior experience had prepared me for him: a man who preferred a wall to a bed; who twisted me in ways I didn't think my body could go; who liked it under the shower at full blast, leaving the bathroom floor completely flooded; who would continuously erupt into a fit of giggles, causing me to burst out in laughter too; whose body felt so perfect to my touch that I amazed myself at how I did not tire of touching it; who left me bruised and sore yet still counting the hours until I would feel his hands on me once again.

He was always the one who determined what we did and how. He schooled me in the art of pleasing him and I was all too willing to learn. And then in return he would tease me until I ached. He made me feel dirty yet wonderfully alive. I felt awful about his wife yet not the least bit willing to stop. This was by far the most unhealthy "relationship" I had ever been in and I did not give a damn. Or rather, I did, but I knew it would all be over in a few days anyway. I didn't recognize this behavior in myself and it both terrified and thrilled me; he was a drug and my greatest concern was when would I get more. The sheer craziness of it all made me feel like it wasn't happening to me, like I was having an out-of-body experience. But at the same time, I had never felt so at home inside my body; he moved me to my core.

Our affair continued for a week and a half, until the end of the trip. By day I traipsed around like the good tourist, listening to a guide describe how Achilles killed Hektor on this exact spot in Troy, admiring the Topkapi Palace, and all the while thinking of the night before or the one to come. The flirtation between us continued, with everyone who saw it no doubt thinking it was harmless. While admiring something, or talking to someone, I would suddenly sense his eyes on me, and I would catch him looking and return his gaze. By the end of the tour, our guide, who shared his room, had begun assigning my hotel room next to theirs, with my parents' room on another floor. That I had no one I could tell about it made me feel like I was going to explode. I eventually told him I knew he was married. He didn't deny it, he just laughed and then kissed me to shut me up.

On the last night of the trip we had a final banquet, an "evening of Turkish culture," with cheesy folk dances and entertainment put on especially for groups like us. After the show, my bus driver and I slow-danced together, holding each other a respectful distance apart, the only public display there had been of anything at all. I was staring into those amazing eyes, the likes of which I knew I would never see again. "Ça va?" he asked me, calling me by name. He had asked me that so many times before, after sex, and this was the final time.

"Oui, ça va," I answered. There was nothing left to say.

It's now been nine years since my trip to Turkey, and I have yet to experience what I had with him. I have no regrets, but that level of obsession I gladly relinquish, as I've learned that the real thing is so much more satisfying. Why this total stranger with whom I could barely communicate had such a hold on me is something I still don't completely understand. All I know is that the chemistry between us was dangerous, and I have no desire to experience it again. I only have to look at a photo of me, with my long hair further lightened by the sun, standing in between him and the guide, our partner in crime, to feel an all-over shudder.

Whenever Turkey comes up in conversation, and people trade stories of haggling in the Grand Bazaar, or of the imposing ruins of Ephesus, there is one image that comes to my mind. I am asleep in my hotel room at Kalkan, the morning after our first night together. We are spooning with him behind me, his arm and leg a lumbering weight on my body; he clutches me fiercely in his sleep. A mosque is next door to our hotel, and its minaret is right outside my open window. The blaring of the muezzin at sunrise jolts me awake. The noise and my sudden movements don't disturb him at all; he doesn't even stir. The first rays of sunlight creep into the room, and I am oddly soothed by the Muslim call to prayer. I look down and stare at his brown arm, encircling my pale one, the hue of his skin making a stark contrast against the white sheets. I know at that moment that this craziness I've embarked on will only happen once in my lifetime, and that I will never do anything quite like it ever again. And with that thought somehow comforting, slowly, deliriously, I drift back into contented sleep.
salon.com | April 30, 1999

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