As the bhang takes effect, the user turns into a mekaiyif, which literally means “an ecstatic." As I followed the blonde into the first chamber, it was easy to see that quite a few of the men there had reached this stage. Some of them were tearing at their clothing, while others, having already freed themselves, were abusing their organs with wild and brutal rhythms. Filled with lust, yet numbed to sensation, the violence with which they attacked themselves showed them to be mekaiyifs. Every so often one of them would plunge through the door opposite the one by which I'd entered.
“No bhang." I shook my head at the blonde.
“No bhang?"
“No. Not tonight. Can I go inside now?"
She shrugged. "Of course.” She waved me towards the other door and left.
I went through it. The scene which greeted my eyes seemed more savage than sexual. In this room the mekaiyifs were using inflamed manhood as though it were a whip to flagellate the Arab girls and golden-skinned Nubian boys who served them there. A large room, it seemed carpeted wall-to-wall with bestiality and lust. Couples, threesomes, foursomes, chains of people, writhed and bounced and slammed flesh at one another. Strangely enough, except for the sounds of heavy breathing, occasional slaps and the sandpapery wheeze of skin abrading skin, the room was quite silent. What I mean is that there were no voices. There were no cries of pain -- although much of what was going on must have been painful. And there were no sighs of pleasure—although much of it presumably was supposed to provide pleasure.
A stripling lad and a shapely Iraqi girl, both completely nude, approached me. I waved them away. There was still another door at the opposite end of this large chamber, and I guessed my investigation might prove more fruitful if I passed through it.
Again, what I found on the other side was quite different from what had gone before. This room was filled with tables filled with all sorts of delicacies. Around the wall were low, upholstered Persian couches. On them, a dozen or so mekaiyifs rested while serving girls in transparently veiled costumes served them food. Evidently the idea was to provide them a restful interlude during which they might replenish their strength before the main event. Spaced around the room were eight large, burly Arabs dressed in breech-cloths and carrying large, stout staffs a little larger than baseball bats. Their function, obviously, was to see that the mekaiyifs didn't run amok in this chamber.
I seated myself on a divan and one of the servant girls came up to me. “Your pleasure?" she asked, bowing low before me, as is the Arabian custom, rather than curtseying as a European female might have done.
“I'm not very hungry," I told her. “But I could use a drink."
“We have a great variety of juices,” she said, and then added with a touch of pride, "We even have ice-cold Coca-Cola."
"I'd prefer something a little more alcoholic.”
“But that is not allowed!" she exclaimed. She actually looked shocked.
I realized I'd committed an unpardonable faux pas. The use of alcohol-—-and particularly in conjunction with sex-—is one of the strictest taboos of El Quran. To the followers of the Prophet, there is no greater sin than drunkenness in lovemaking. It was a stricture I'd found much broken in Damascus, but evidently not in Baghdad.
I thought to myself that it was typical of Arab morality that it would countenance the use of the most potentially self-destructive drugs while abhorring the drinking of liquor. Later that night I commented on it casually to Basra. His reply was illuminating.
“The most revered Muhammed," he pointed out, “discouraged liquor while recommending the use of kayf and bhang for the reason that he observed that the former, while frequently increasing desire, often interfered greatly with the potency of performance, while the latter truly renders a man capable of feats of great sexual prowess.”
"But the drugs make him go berserk," I protested. “Many times the bhang user becomes a menace to society."
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. "But from what I have heard of your country, alcohol frequently has similar results. I read somewhere that your deaths on the highway total each year a number comparable to a small war. And I have heard that many of these are due to an over-indulgence in alcoholic beverages Also, your crime rate and trouble with your young people likewise has some connection with the extent to which criminals and adolescents imbibe. I see little difference, sir, between drugs and liquor when the results are so similar."
I might have pointed out that there was a vast difference in degree, but the truth was that basically Basra was right. American morality is different from Arab morality, but both have their flaws. It's always easier to see the holes in the other fellow's logic than in one’s own.
Now, with the serving girl still staring at me as though I'd spit on her religion, I quickly apologized. "I really don't want any food or drink at the moment," I added. "I'll just sit here and rest for a while."
I sat back and watched the activity in the room. On the opposite wall there was a series of draped cubicles. Every so often one of the mekaiyifs would rise and enter one of them. Sometimes they would return; more often they wouldn't, and I presumed that each of the cubicles must have another exit. Finally I followed their example and entered one of them myself.
Immediately, a European brunette, dressed similarly to the blonde who had greeted me when I entered the brothel, appeared. "What is your desire?" she asked me in a vaguely Slavic accent.
"What would you suggest?"
She thought a moment, evidently searching her mind for something truly exotic to offer me. "We have some excellent virgin lambs just brought from the Zagros Mountains."
My lack of comprehension must have showed on my face.
"Some men find them an excellent hors d’oeuvre to increase the appetite for the main course."
“But I'm not hungry," I said, still confused.
A small smile crossed her face. "I am not speaking of food," she explained. "The virgin lambs of the Zagros provide erotic thrills not to be found anywhere else in the world."
I understood now and repressed a small shudder. “No thanks," I said drily. “I think I'll pass on the mutton."
"A Nubian boy, perhaps? They are very artful."
"I'm sure they are. But why don't we just stick to females?”
"Of course. We have an excellent variety from all over the world. What is your preference?"
“I would like a Russian girl," I told her firmly. “Is that possible?"
“Surely. If you will wait but a moment.” She vanished to return shortly with a tall Russian girl.
The Russian girl in no way resembled the picture of Anna Kirkov hidden in my wallet. The first girl left us and the second led me from the alcove to a private room. The door closed behind us, and I sat on the bed while she performed a dance evidently designed to provoke me sexually.
It would have worked if my mind hadn’t been on other things. I held her off when she approached me and questioned her. “Are you the only Russian girl here?” I asked.
“Da. I am"
“Have there been any other Russian girls at all here recently?"
“Nyet.”
“Is there much of a turnover in the girls here?"
"We turn over maybe two, three times each night," she told me, misunderstanding. “If you like to do it that way, it will be my pleasure." She flopped face down on the bed.