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   ARMENIA (MF, cons, inter-cultural)
   Once, I spoke with a friend about how untidy and even dirty my apartment
was and that I was reluctant to clean all the mess.  He told me that he
just got a new Armenian cleaner and how impressed he was about her skills
and her neatness.  He said that he could give me her number but that she
wasn't the cheapest cleaner avaible.  I replied, that my apartment was
quite small and that I would be able afford twenty bucks (for two hours)
every three months!  We both laughed.  I'd be glad if she'd come to my
place once a month, I said.
   My friend noted, that beside her cleaning skills, she was also a kind
person and above all trustworthy.  That sounds good, I thought, after all,
my friend should really know cleaners, hadn't he been single his entire
life and spend many years in various countries getting to know a lot of
them.  He finally added that I'd surely not regret it.  So, I gladly wrote
down her number while I worried how I'd explain the bad condition of my
toilet to her.
   My friend's hymn of praise suggested that she was at least a very
conscientious and diligent woman.  Maybe she was used to more affluent and
clean apartments.  Would she be disgusted about my place?  And won't she
steal anything?  Such thoughts came into my mind probably because it was
the first time I took a cleaner and allowed a stranger entrance into my
sacred apartment.  Finally, I thought, shouldn't I just clean up the mess
myself and save twenty bucks?
   In this moment, another idea flashed through my mind, yeah, this is a
nice idea, perhaps, I could fuck her as well.  That would be a special
service, and would be worth the twenty Euros.  So, I called her and made an
appointment.  We met at my apartment.  She told me that her name was
Hasmik. She was not bad looking at all though she was no model, around
thirty, quite small, slender, dark hair, and beautiful, dark eyes.
   She looked typically Armenian with a Persian element, which is the
neighboring country of Armenia.  Her pretty eyes reminded me of my Persian
love, so expressive and oriental.  When I peered into these eyes, sensuous
images of the past rose within me, pictures of my former Iranian
girlfriend. I beamed with joy and lust when I remembered her oral skills;
how she used to devour me with those dark, expressive eyes, studying my
expression while she had my hard cock deep engulfed in her delicious mouth.
   I was soon awakened of my dreams when Hasmik asked me what she had to
clean.  I told her everything and left the apartment.  When I came back, I
was pleased to find my home clean and neat.  She had done great work.  I
paid her and asked her if she could do my laundry too.  She accepted.  We
finally agreed that I'd bring the laundry to her apartment, so that she'd
not have to carry all the things one her back to her home.  I was glad
because it gave me the opportunity to visit her at her home and get to know
her better without seeming to attempt a rapprochement.
   At the end of the week, I managed to visit her.  I quickly found her
place and handed her the laundry.  I was standing in her doorway waiting
that she would invite me in.  Of course, I couldn't say, 'Please let me
in.' We exchanged some pleasantries till she friendly invited me to stay
and drink a cup of tea with her.  So I entered her apartment and she showed
me the living room.  I was about to sit down when my eye fell on a small
table beside the sofa.  It had a candle, a crucifix and pictures on it.  I
was bending down to have a closer look when Hasmik came into the room with
a cup of tea.  She saw me standing at the small table.  I looked up at her
and asked,
   "What's this?"
   "It's a shrine for my late husband," she responded.
   "Oh, I'm sorry," I stammered.  I was very shocked and watched the
pictures with horror.  They showed a good-looking Armenian man in his best
years with his beautiful wife and two small boys.
   "You have two boys?" I asked.
   "Yes, Armen and Seriosh," she said.
   "How old are they?" I asked her.
   "Armen is seven and Seriosh is five.  They mean the world to me."
   "I am sure they are," I said.  "But Seriosh isn't an Armenian name,
isn't it?" I asked.
   "No, it's a Russian name," she answered.
   "Yes, I thought that because I read Anna Karenina and there was a man
called Seriosh," I noted.
   "It's a beautiful name," she added.
   She got up and went into the kitchen.  I glanced around myself and saw
pictures of Mount Ararat and the capital Yerevan hanging on the wall. 
Books were lying on the table written in a strange script.  The characters
looked really funny.  Although she was in my country and even in my home
town I felt transformed into another world.  And I liked that feeling,
being at home but also being far away without danger or lack of amenities.
Hasmik entered her lovely decorated living room and brought in tea and
cookies.  She gave me a cup of black tea and we started to drink.
   "How did your husband die?" I softly asked.
   "It was a car accident," she responded.
   It was only now that I fully realized whom I had met: a young widow and
her two small boys.  They came to my country as refugees and lost their
father in a car accident, caused by a drunken boy of my age of my people. I
felt genuinely sorry for her.  All my former erotic intentions quickly
vanished.  How could I only think about sex?  I asked myself reproachfully.
We spoke about her children and their school.  She told me more about her
family and about her new life in my country.
   It was clear that this wasn't easy for her, and it never is, but I was
happy to learn that she and her children were having kind of well
livelihood, considering the circumstances.  She had work, a nice apartment,
received some money from the sate, and got assistance from friends.  From
this moment on, I never thought about Hasmik in a sexual way.  I decided to
let her work more hours so that she could earn more money for her family.
When she would come to my apartment, we would always talk a little bit.
   Fortunately, her stroke of fate hadn't made her bitter.  She was still a
humorous person and she liked me.  I told her funny stories about the time
I used to work in the refugee camp.  She could as well speak a little bit
Russian and I made her laugh many times.  She asked me about girlfriends
and I told her that I had a Persian girl once.  She was very modest and
would not dare to ask anything more.  Months later, I asked her out of
curiosity,
   "What do you think about men from my country?"
   "Well, I don't know them that much," she answered.
   "Haven't you ever had a boyfriend of them?"
   "No"
   "Why?"
   "I'm busy with work and my boys are still young," she replied.
   "But you want to have one, - after some time?"
   "Yes, when my boys are older," she declared.
   I just wanted to know Hasmik's opinion about the men of my nation, but
she was clearly the wrong contact for that.  Step by step, and month by
month she became more affectionate.  I still didn't consider any sexual
encounters.  She would tease me and I would tease her about the cleaning.
She liked my funny way and how I answered all her answers about my country
and people who I sometimes ridiculed.  She felt secure and gave up her
former awe and shyness.  She would even tease me and playfully touch me. 
On one occasion she asked me curiously,
   "How old are you?"
   "Guess!"
   "No, please no, I cannot guess, tell me your age?"
   "I want you to guess!"
   She stopped everything she was doing right then, and looked at me.  Then
she murmured,
   "Oh God, please tell me, how old is this man?"
   I watched her intently.  She suddenly looked really sweet to me with her
hands placed on her hips.  And once again I regarded her as a sexual being.
   "You are 23," she proudly stated.
   "Hey, where do you know that?" I demanded to know.
   "Oh, he just told me," she smiled, pointing upwards.
   "Wow, I'm impressed," I stuttered.
   "How old am I?" she urgently asked.
   "Ok.  Wait.  Let me ask God," I said.
   "You are 29," I answered.
   "That's correct," she happily responded.
   We were both laughing but didn't know how to continue this conversation,
at least me; I wasn't sure what to say.  I think she was also surprised. 
Finally, her work time was over and she tenderly touched me when she said
goodbye.  When she left me, a strong feeling overcame me which brought her
thoughts to my mind!  What a great surprise to sense what she was thinking
at the moment,
   'Oh, God, please grant me one night with this man.'
   Now, it was clear what she wanted and I needn't to have feelings of
guilt anymore.  When she came the next time, I said,
   "That was really interesting, when you guessed my age right last time.
Are you always asking God about men?"
   "Oh no," she bashfully answered.
   to be continued...
   
  
armenia