Generations

The young man sat on the edge of his grandfather’s bed, listening with the respect owed to age and rank.

“…but my grandfather,” the old man was saying, “Had more than one hundred wives. A hundred! Can you believe it?”

“Truly, that is an astonishing number,” said his grandson, his tone giving nothing of belief or disbelief away. His deference to his grandfather was at the very least courteous, and perhaps more than that.

“He had two wives with long fingernails,” the elder recalled, “So that when he wanted his back scratched, he could have it done by twenty fingers.”

“Indeed?”

“And four wives whose fingers were pampered and softened every day, so that such a pleasure could be followed by the soothing caress of eight delicate hands.”

“I see.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled with a memory of youth. “And he had three beautiful wives whose mouths were like — like oiled silk, he used to say, who together would cause the most astonishing…” His voice trailed to quietness as his eyes closed.

His grandson watched with affection for a while, and then stole away. His thoughts were on a girl named Fatima, whose lively, challenging eyes, sweet face, and modest bearing had captivated him. When his time came to rule, he would have her brought to dance the hrahm-zheht for him, and if her body were as pleasing as her face, he would take her to wife. His only wife, for he felt that one was all a man might need.

Lying against his pillows, the sovereign called for his twenty-third and latest bride. A certain thing she did with her little sharp teeth could make a man… He dozed, waiting for her to come to him.

— Frenulum