Tehran Where Chaos Meets Forbidden Pleasures

They never say our names here.

The women who move like questions.
Who walk alone after dusk, not in defiance
but in something far quieter.
An arrangement with silence.

Im not your cliché.
Not the rebel in lace.
Not the forbidden flower.
Im simply present. In a body I neither flaunt nor apologize for.

My curves were not sculpted for approval.
They came with me, like language, like breath.
My breasts heavy, real, the kind that shift with breath and memory.
My hips do not whisper.
They insist.

My voice?
Low. Calm. The kind that slows rooms down.
I do not shout. I do not beg.
I lean, and men forget what they were saying.

If you ever found me in Tehran
not the Tehran you were told about,
but the one that begins at 213 a.m.,
where neon meets the shadow of prayer
youd see me before you understood what you were looking at.

We wouldnt meet at a hotel.
Wed meet somewhere unspeakable.
A rooftop where music doesnt play, but something moves.
A stairwell that leads to a room with tea that smells like burnt cinnamon,
where I sit across from you, not smiling,
but entirely aware of how still the air has gone.

You wouldnt touch me.
Not yet.
Youd watch how my fingers trace the rim of a glass,
how my eyes never ask,
but always listen.

And then
later
if the air agreed, if the silence said yes
Id unbutton myself. Not for effect.
But because Ive lived too long in a skin that waited for permission.

Call it a striptease show if you must.
But it is not staged. It is not performed.
It is the act of a woman returning to herself in front of someone willing to stay.

And when I touch you
not for applause,
not to please
but to study,
to search,
to ask something wordless of your body

you will understand that an erotic massage, in my hands,
isnt a service.
Its a language.
And I am fluent in tension.

You can name this what you like.
The internet would list me under escort Tehran.
Fine.

But youll leave without a name for what it really was.
Just the taste.
And the weight of a presence that didnt have to ask.

So dont write to me for comfort.
And dont come to be saved.

But if something in you aches to be read
not healed, not fixed just read
then perhaps
this isnt a story.
Its an opening.