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Senegal Beach Story
by Fionna Guillaume
He came to me while I was at the hotel bar, watching the dance floor: sinuous dark girls twined around flabby white men; muscle-bound Senegalese Adonises grinding their hips against women somewhat past their sell-by date. Love for hire. Or at least lust. And business was booming.
I took a long sip of my gin & tonic. Witnessing sex tourism was not why I had come here. I was in Saly Portudal, resort town on the coast of Senegal, for one simple reason: my mother had paid for it. As a Christmas present. To get me out of the cynical funk I’d fallen into during my second year as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Fourteen months in a rural village, unending culture shock, and the Sisyphean task of improving community health, had scraped away my idealism. I was twenty-three, single, frustrated and burnt-out. Mom took that to mean I needed a vacation. She booked me into a hotel with beach access and— Alhamdulillah—a bar. I missed cocktails, living in a Muslim community.
“Salut,” he said. His voice was deep and luxurious. Turning, I saw his smiling face, white teeth against the startling darkness of his skin. He leaned on the bar, giving me all his attention.
“Naga def,” I said, so he’d know I wasn’t just another tourist.
“Maangiy fii,” he answered, laughing. “You speak Wolof?”
“Oui,” I replied, in French. I spoke the language fluently. Might as well take advantage of this chance to practice, since most of my time was spent discussing everyday village affairs (Peanuts, mostly) in Wolof. It was the major ethnic group in my village; also the dominant culture and language of Senegal.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jaynaba Guèye,” I said, vehemently, giving the name I’d been assigned during my ‘adoption’ into the village. I’d set Jennifer aside, growing over time into Jaynaba: a character I created, a mask I wore; the personality required to survive the pushy, loud, abrasive culture.
I expected him to raise an eyebrow, or push me for the truth. He didn’t. “Je m’appelle Abdou Senghor.”
I took his offered hand; squeezed briefly. When we let go I raised my palm to my heart in a reflexive gesture. It indicated respect when greeting in Senegal. He noticed, and his smile brightened.
“Senghor,” I repeated, recognizing the ethnic origin of the name. “You’re Sérère?” When he nodded, I said cheekily, “Nam fio?”
Greetings in Senegal were of crucial importance. With a set script of questions and responses, it wasn’t about having an actual conversation. It was a ritual. I knew the basic greeting in his language, and when I used it, he grinned in delighted surprise.
“Meyhamen,” he replied, laughing.
With mounting interest, I regarded Abdou. He had classic West African features: high, round cheekbones; strong chin; a broad, shapely nose; and black eyes, the whites like rich cream, framed by incredible curling lashes. His head was close shaved. No frippery marred his good looks. He wore a thin blue t-shirt over crisp khaki trousers. His tennis shoes gleamed. He must have taken special care to scrub them before coming out.
Usually I avoided Senegalese men, no matter how tempting. Any hint of sexual interest would result in unending propositions, more or less matrimonial. Plus, as a young woman alone, a guest in a patriarchal Muslim culture, I didn’t want the slightest hint of loose morality associated with me. I masturbated a lot.
But I was far from the village. He was Sérère—reputedly the handsomest people, known for having the darkest skin and the strongest traditional wrestlers. Also, according to the Peace Corps community, their culture was more laid-back, less aggressive than the Wolof. I couldn’t deny my attraction.
Abdou didn’t push. He waited, smiling, as if he knew what was destined between us. Eventually, I caved to the inevitable.
“Do you want a drink?” I offered.
He ordered Coca Cola, making me extra conscious of the gin in my glass. A good Muslim boy; he didn’t touch alcohol. We sat side by side, nursing our drinks. His eyes kept sliding over to a magnificent young man: torso like a body builder, narrow hips emphasizing his dramatic muscles. This mouthwatering specimen danced to mbalax music—a sensual beat designed for seduction, and fucking—with a pasty, overweight, middle-aged woman. She looked like the kind of person who went home to fifteen cats every night. Yet there she was, snuggled into the embrace of a gorgeous African man.
I frowned. There was no question why he was doing it—for the money. But why would she consent to this temporary fantasy? How could she hold him that way, let him pretend to make love to her, and then pay him afterwards? I took a gulp of my cocktail, attempting to drown my discomfort. Because I realized Abdou must have come to Saly for the same reason.
“My friend, El Hadji Faye,” said Abdou, gesturing at the man. “We are students together at Cheikh Anta Diop University, in Dakar.”
“You’re a student?” I said, surprised.
“Yes. I study Pharmacy.” He paused; took a sip of Coke. “Neither of us have money to continue this semester. El Hadji had the idea to come here. He knows a fellow student who met a Dutch girlfriend in Saly last year. She paid for the rest of his education. Comme ça.”
He took another swig. Avoided my eyes. My face hardened into a glare. The thought of him doing that was beyond what I could stomach. His friend El Hadji was an expert; he’d found a woman likely to pay up. Abdou needed to pick his targets better.
“That’s what you think?” I snapped. “You think I’m going to give you money? Take you to bed with me and then pay you after?”
Furious, I chugged the last of my gin & tonic, slammed the glass down on the bar, reached into my money pouch, and threw money beside it. My temper was rising, and with it the need to lash out.
“In Senegal, all you think about is money, money!” I snarled. My French had grown shrill, but it felt good to release my emotions.
“Maayma xaalis! Amul xaalis!” I said, mimicking whiny Wolof voices asking for cash. “You think money will solve all your problems? You think because I have white skin, I’m rich? You think I’ll pay you, for that?” I jabbed at his crotch, so he leapt away, startled.
From the look on his face, I saw he was hurt and shocked. But I wasn’t done. All the bitterness—the pent-up anger from months of being seen as a source of income, of sleazy sex, of a ticket to the States; a capricious being made of wealth—came pouring forth.
My bitter laugh came out choked and harsh. “No. Bonne nuit. And good fucking luck,” I added, in English.
I stomped out of the bar. Leaving behind the sunburned tourists, shopping for flesh among the young and beautiful; but poor, poor enough to seek a profit between the thighs of some rich and lonely traveler. Tears prickled, and I swiped them away.
Back in my hotel room, surrounded by 5-star luxury, I flopped upon the cloudlike bed. Air conditioning stroked my face with a cool, refreshing breeze. There I lay, wracked with guilt, furious at the world. The vast divide between the haves and have-nots. Their desperation and my complacence; the insurmountable injustice.
Hardest of all was the stark realization that I was exactly the kind of woman Abdou sought. I did have money. A thousand dollars, my Christmas gift, loaded onto a prepaid Visa card. It represented half a year’s stipend for a Peace Corps Volunteer. More than a year’s income for most village families. Sleep came late, and fitfully.
Morning glowed through the window hangings, waking me in a wash of multicolored light. It was my last day of vacation, so I determined to savor it. Enjoy my bikini time on the beach, before I returned to the rural part of Senegal, where I meticulously covered my knees and tied a scarf over my hair. After a light breakfast I wrapped a bright pagne around my waist and walked to the beach.
Saly plage was composed of pristine yellow sand, swaying palm trees, pure turquoise water… and a meat market. I took my seat on a hotel recliner, put on my sunglasses, whipped off my pagne, and settled in for the show. Sun, sea, and sex.
The beach was thick with fine-looking people—mostly men, stripped down to skintight boxers. Showing off, they did push-ups on the sand, or played quick games of soccer; dark skin gleaming in the sun, sand clinging to defined muscles: athletic bodies straight from erotic dreams. Stout European matrons watched them with the avid interest of window shoppers.
Disgruntled, I cracked open my book and looked away. Even after three days in Saly, I was uncomfortable with the sight of people offering themselves for sale. Always the Europeans were older, not particularly attractive. What else could they offer these gorgeous young Senegalese, but money, or a visa? A chance to leave their beloved, impoverished country. What rankled me most were the casual overtones of colonialism. The affluent, powerful, loveless White picking and choosing among the lovely, desired, desperate Black. It turned my stomach to sit there on the same beach, complicit in the dirty business.
“Asalaam aleikum,” came a voice. The traditional Arabic greeting.
“Maleikum salaam,” I replied, turning. I recognized his face immediately. “Abdou.”
He smiled, looking so handsome my breath caught. Nodding at the empty chair next to me, he asked, “May I sit?”
That morning he wore flip-flops, jean shorts, and a red t-shirt. Not beachside seduction wear, for which I was grateful. Seeing him shirtless, running my eyes over his lean, muscular physique, might have been too much to resist.
Although trying to be a gentleman, Abdou snuck a long glance at my bare legs: totally taboo in the village. My bikini did not leave much to the imagination. His naked interest made me uneasy…because arousal throbbed through my body, gushing between my legs, and I knew I wanted him.
To combat my rising discomfort, I decided to get straight to the point. “Abdou Senghor, I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have said those things. You’re just doing the best you can. I know how hard it is to earn money in Senegal. Please accept my apology.”
His smile flickered, but he nodded with a shrug. “Forgiven.”
We fell into awkward silence. Then, seeking a new topic, I reached into my bag and pulled out a lukewarm bottled soda. “Want one?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He opened the bottle, passed it to me, and took one for himself. The lemony flavor was refreshing; sea breeze only did so much against the heat.
“I know you aren’t like them,” Abdou said suddenly. He raised his chin toward a nearby lady, of the pale-and-doughy variety. “I can see that you’re different, Jaynaba Guèye. El Hadji says it’s only for the money, but… I’m not… I don’t want to be a… prostitute.” The word came out in a gruff whisper. “I thought I could, but I cannot… I cannot do that.”
My face flushed. I felt wrenching sadness, embarrassment, regret; a potent emotional cocktail. I’d jumped to conclusions about him. My sensitivity was heightened from the rough attention I experienced daily in Senegal. Always being pointed out, shouts of “toubab!” trailing me everywhere, leering marriage proposals; constant requests for money, or a visa, or a gift. It exhausted me to the point where I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
Impulsively, I reached for his hand. Squeezed. He looked at me through those curled eyelashes. The raw emotion in his eyes brought tears to mine.
“I believe you,” I whispered.
He nodded. Smiled shakily. Then, waving one hand, as if brushing away an irritating fly, he changed the subject. “Where do you live?”
“Keur Babacar Guèye. It’s a small village in the Kaolack region, near Nioro du Rip.”
He nodded in recognition. “I know Nioro. Close to Gambia border, right? Bring me back some sugar.”
His sly grin reinforced what I had learned: The Gambia didn’t tax sugar, so people from border towns were always smuggling back a few kilos, resold cheap, for a profit. I smiled in return, letting him know I caught the joke.
“Et toi? Where are you from?”
“Sokone town. But now, I live with my cousin in Dakar. So I can go to university.”
Abdou’s French was perfect, with a sonorous, musical accent. French: the language of romance, where every word is spoken through pursed lips, as if awaiting a kiss. Our conversation grew fluid and comfortable, prior offenses brushed aside as we fell into the old routine of getting to know someone new.
He shared stories of student life; we commiserated on the challenges of leaving a small town and family, trying to navigate the bustle and craze of a capital city. Later, I described life in my tiny village, far off in the bush. Abdou’s eyes widened when I explained the lack of electricity, robinet—water spout—or road. If I wanted to travel, I walked seven kilometers to Nioro, or hitched a ride on a donkey cart. Every morning, I joined the women at the well to draw water. We worked on pulleys, hauling up buckets of gritty liquid, pouring them into our jugs, taking turns. He gasped in disbelief when I said I carried my panne home on my head, just like the others.
“C’est pas vrai!” he exclaimed.
“It is true!” I said, proud, and not a little smug.
He shook his head, smiling. “You’re a hardworking woman. Une travailleuse.”
“I don’t work hard like Senegalese women. In Senegal, women do all the work. Not the men.”
“Really? Do men get water? Do men cook? Do laundry? Sweep the courtyard? Iron the clothes? Watch the babies? Clean the dishes? Pound the millet? Wash the rice? Gather firewood? Weed the fields?”
“The men farm,” Abdou said, but his retort was timid. He knew I had a point.
My inner feminist was on the warpath. “Toggu, naan aataya, rekk!” I exclaimed, in Wolof. All they do is sit and drink tea!
Abdou spread his hands in a gesture of defeat, chuckling in an affectionate way. Our sodas were long gone by then. My stomach growled, prompting me to peek at my cheap cell phone. One o’clock already! I glanced at Abdou’s slender frame. I doubted he’d even had breakfast.
“Want to get lunch?” I asked. Seeing his hesitation, I added, “I’m inviting you. I’ll pay.”
He accepted graciously, though I could tell he’d rather treat me. The simple reality was I had money; he didn’t.
Somehow, while we were sitting there talking, I’d forgotten about my lack of clothes. As I stood, though, and wrapped the pagne around me, Abdou looked pointedly away. I caught the flash in his eyes just as he averted his gaze. It reflected mine: a dark flare of lust; the heat of sexual awareness. I tucked the wrap extra tight, but it only served to highlight the thrill of desire rising through my skin.
We walked to a pizzeria nearby, where I’d had lunch every day. For Peace Corps Volunteers, cheese was a source of intense longing. I dreamed about rich, creamy Brie, tangy Cheddar, pungent Roquefort. All we had in Kaolack was La Vache qui rit. Pseudo-cheese, at best.
I ordered a large pizza Margherita, with extra mozzarella. When it arrived, steaming and fragrant, my mouth watered. Though they served it European style, with knives and forks, I cut the pie into generous slices, grabbed a triangle, folded it in half, and devoured it in the time-honored American way.
Gingerly, Abdou copied me. He sniffed the cheese, looking dubious. With great trepidation, he took a small bite. I almost choked, laughing, at the horrified expression on his face. Eyes wide, he hastily reached for a glass of water.
“You don’t like cheese pizza?” I teased.
He shook his head sheepishly. “Never tried it,” he admitted.
“It’s, like, the favorite food of every American child!”
Smiling then, he retorted, “I am not a child. I am a man.” His voice was rich, meaningful. My stomach fluttered, temporarily disrupting my appetite.
Chuckling to lighten the atmosphere, he added, “And I can see that you like it. So eat. I am not hungry.”
“I’m sure they have some Senegalese specialties. Here, let’s ask the waiter.”
He ended up with yassa poulet: rice with chicken in onion sauce. I watched him eat, gathering a bit of everything on his spoon, taking a large bite; savoring it. In the village, we shared a single bowl and ate with our hands—the right one only, of course.
“Kaay lekk,” he said softly, noticing my interest. ‘Come eat;’ the Senegalese always invited others to share their meal, no matter how modest. A matter of supreme importance: true hospitality in the land of teranga. That had never seemed sexy before. It did then.
I shook out of my daze, and went back to the pizza.
After lunch (I had devoured the entire plate), we sat together in companionable quiet, sipping our soft drinks. Abdou’s eyes kept coming back to mine. Our gazes met; connected; slid hotly away. I felt tension between us, tight as a wire. Almost at the breaking point.
“Begg na la, Jaynaba,” he whispered across the table.
I caught my breath, my heart hammering. It was Wolof, meaning ‘I want you.’ Up until then, I’d only heard it from slimy pick-up guys, said half-jokingly, like an insult. Abdou was completely serious. He looked straight at me. Not smiling. The phrase sounded different in his mouth; full of yearning. I melted.
“Jennifer,” I breathed.
“My real name. Jennifer.”
His lips rose into a slow smile. “Zhainiférrr,” he repeated, rolling my name on his tongue. It made me shiver. Arousal gushed between my legs. At that moment, I made my decision. When I stood, my legs trembled. I held my hand out to him. After a second’s hesitation—men and women did not traditionally hold hands; it would cause a scandal in the village—he took it.
“Come,” I said, and led him to my room.
His lips were hot on my neck. I untied my bikini top and tossed it away. Breasts were not typically viewed as erotic in Senegal; women had them out all the time, staying cool while scrubbing laundry under the heavy sun, or nursing babies—of which a typical wife had many. I was therefore unprepared for Abdou’s enthusiastic grip, or his attention to my nipples. He wrapped his broad, soft lips around them, sucking deeply. My tips contracted into hard, sensitive nubs, and I moaned. My hands went around his head, stroking his bristly scalp.
He stepped back from me, and began to undress. Abdou’s body was amazing: long, ropey muscles everywhere, from his tailored shoulders, across his slim, rippling torso, to his narrow hips and strong legs. His cock was thick and ready; his erection bumped at his navel. Circumcised, in the customary way.
I stood, too. My pulse was racing. I untied the pagne skirt; let it drop to the ground. Then I slipped off my bikini bottom. The entire surface of my skin was alive. I felt every brush of air; every miniscule difference in temperature. With my heightened awareness, the lightest touch of his fingertips on my arm made me moan. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed.
“Tu es belle,” he murmured.
My eyes flickered open. He looked at me with wonder, the intensity of his gaze like a dark pool, with many currents rushing beneath. I said nothing in response. Instead, I reached up, twined my arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Our lips fit together like a pot and lid; my lower lip slipped between both of his as if shaped only for that. I closed my teeth and gently bit, gratified by his throaty rumble. His lips, much thicker than mine, enveloped my mouth in luxurious warmth. It felt natural to share that warmth with the rest of my body, as he guided me down onto the bed.
His hairless chest met mine in a smooth glide of skin on skin. He grabbed my thighs and ass; kneaded my waist. Beneath my palms, his muscles rippled and slid. I felt his erection jab into my hip.
“Wait,” I said. Leaning over, I dug into my bag for condoms. Peace Corps standard issue. Mostly I gave them out to village women who asked. Once, I’d given a demonstration to a bevy of curious ladies. They shrieked when I pulled the condom off, yelling, “It looks like a snake!” Other than that impromptu lesson, I’d never had occasion to use one.
He watched me with such solemnity, I saw an unspoken admission: he’d never used a condom before. Maybe never had sex before—an idea that sent shivers of nervousness and thrill down my spine. I carefully opened the package, slipped out the condom, pinched the tip, and rolled it on with a long, sensuous stroke.
Once sheathed, Abdou shattered my virgin theory. He grabbed my thighs and held my legs apart as he rocked into me, one teasing inch at a time. The head of his cock felt amazing, spreading me deliciously wide; I whined each time he took it away. Smiling, Abdou watched my reaction. I balled my hands in the sheets, arched my back, and pressed my hips higher, trying to pull him in.
Abdou teased me with merciless focus, bracing himself above me, giving only short, unsatisfying thrusts. My pussy ached with wanting him. I felt that familiar tingle deep inside, an itch that only his delicious cock could scratch. But he tortured me with pleasure, rocking only a centimeter deeper each time, driving me to the unbearable brink. He waited until I was whimpering with need, before finally pushing all the way in.
I must have screamed, but all I remember is the unbelievable pleasure of him filling me, stretching my inner muscles so every tiny movement felt like a thunderbolt. He didn’t kiss me, or distract me with coy touches. My fingers dug into his shoulders, and he heaved himself on top. Braced against each other, we ground our pelvises together, seeking the rhythm.
The vision burst into my mind of a Wolof sabaar dance: the drummers, always men, played fast, frenetic beats, with such force that sweat glistened on their faces. Women dancers strode over, faced the drums, locked eyes with the men. Hiking their skirts over their hips, they threw their legs into the air, swirling their arms, flashing thigh and underwear, grinning wide. The jerking of their hips matched the drumbeat, faster and faster. Locked in contest, drummer and dancer played off one another, until they both reached a crescendo together in a burst of noise. A musical-sexual climax.
Abdou was my drummer, and I danced for him.
My legs locked around his waist, holding him close, when he came. I knew the moment from his trembling gasp, the way his body tensed and stilled while his cock thickened. Triumph surged through me: I was the victor; his passion had been subsumed by my flame.
He pulled away, panting, to lie beside me. I couldn’t read his expression, but I smiled reassurance. My clit was tingling, begging for more, so I fixed my gaze on his face as I slid my hand between my legs. He watched, heat glowing from his eyes, as I rubbed myself, faster, with focus, until I shattered with a cry. Replete, I snuggled against him, sighing with contentment. His chest was sticky beneath my cheek. My thighs were slick with satisfaction.
After a while he turned to me. “C’était bon?” he asked. The tone of his voice carried the typical male insecurity, uncertain whether he had pleased me.
I laughed, gently, and rolled over to kiss him. “So good,” I murmured. Then, with a happy sigh, I added, “Let’s take a shower?”
In the village, I bathed in a bucket, using a tiny cup to slosh water over my body. A single jug could last me two days, which saved a trip to the well. I washed my long hair once a week, and let it air dry, to the fascination of my littlest host sister. She often tried to braid it in cornrows, but they never held.
When I went to town, there was running water (usually), but cold. Saly was the first time I’d had hot water in over a year. As I sighed beneath the lavish heat, I wondered whether Abdou had ever taken a hot shower. When he felt the water, he smiled at me, with a look of pure enjoyment that touched my heart.
I soaped him down playfully, and he followed suit. It had been ages since I felt so close to a man. I’d come to Saly for respite—a break from reality; from Senegal, if I was honest—and instead I’d discovered the most unexpected intimacy. The warmth I felt wasn’t simply from the shower.
A sneaky memory rose again, this time of a conversation with my teenaged host sister. She was a boisterous, cheeky girl who loved making jokes. Soon to be married off to some faraway cousin, no doubt, but for the moment she enjoyed the fun-loving aspects of single young womanhood. Once she’d asked me if it was true that ‘toubabs’ liked having their breasts kissed and played with; she’d seen it on a Brazilian soap-opera. I admitted that this was so.
With a wicked grin, she grabbed her crotch and asked, “And here? You kiss here?”
“Yes,” I said.
Her mouth gaped with astonishment. “Ci degg degg?! Really?” she gasped. “That’s dirty!”
I laughed at her utter shock. “No it’s not. We wash first.”
With that exchange in my mind, I glanced at Abdou. He must have recognized the naughty glint in my eyes, for he smiled. His grin faded into confusion when I sank to my knees and slid my hands between his legs. Within moments his erection rose against my cheek. I licked my lips.
“What are you doing?” he asked, curious, but somewhat alarmed.
I smiled. And proceeded to blow his mind.
We spent all the next morning at the beach. Neither of us spoke about our impending separation, but it hung heavy in my thoughts. I steeled myself for what I was about to do. Praying and hoping I was right about him; about us.
For lunch we shared a bowl of ceeb u jen, the national dish of Senegal, greasy rice with fish and vegetables. We ate with our hands. Occasionally our fingers brushed inside the bowl, and we looked at each other with shy, lingering smiles.
By two in the afternoon, I had to go. With public transportation, it was best to leave several hours of margin, and I needed to get to Kaolack before dark. Keur Babacar Guèye was waiting, and I felt the pull of the village. Despite the hardships and emotional turmoil, I wanted to be there. That was my job; my entire reason for being in Senegal. Reluctantly, I headed for my last stop: the bank.
He waited outside while I concluded my business. When I emerged, he walked beside me, quiet, hands swinging at his sides as we made our way toward the garage routière. Before we entered the hubbub of yelling drivers and overeager apprentices, I pulled him aside. Taking out my money pouch, I carefully extracted a 10,000cfa bill and tucked it into my skirt. The rest, I handed solemnly to him.
Abdou’s eyes went wide. “Jaynaba, I don’t want money from you,” he said. I saw how much it cost him; the protest in his face, warring with his need.
“Take it,” I said. “This money isn’t for having sex with me. It’s for not having sex with anyone else.”
Though his expression softened, he still hesitated.
“Please?” I urged.
With great solemnity, Abdou took the wad of bills. Tucked it away in a pocket of his shorts. He did not speak.
“Go back to school,” I said. Then, with a smile, I pressed a folded piece of paper against his chest. Reflexively, he took it. I’d written my cell phone number there, back at the bank. “Call me.”
Ignoring the bustle of people around us, and their stares, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. My lips pressed into his so hard, his teeth bruised me, and I loved it. I pulled back, meeting his passionate eyes. Our connection vibrated, tightened.
Somehow, I tore myself away. Back into the death trap they called a sept-place taxi; back over potholed roads, through washed-out towns; past the stinking expanse of burning garbage on the outskirts of Kaolack; back to the village, where women walked in dignified shapes of S, carrying the weight of responsibility like water on their heads; where people greeted me with ‘Asalaam aleikum,’ and I responded ‘Peace be with you’; back to the Senegal I knew. To the place where, I was determined, some good could be done. Some lives could be improved, with just a little more kindness, a little more giving.
Abdou called the next day.
Bio: Fionna Guillaume specializes in erotica short stories and erotic romance. Like her readers, Fionna enjoys unique heroines, sexy heroes, and a good old-fashioned love story... with plenty of erotic parts. She served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa, which inspired this literary visit to Senegal’s sunny shores. Stay connected online: fionnaguillaume.wordpress.com
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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Senegal Beach Story
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Rose B. Thonry
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Real Life Loving
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The Power of Words
When Hope Was Lost
Ode to Meatgrinder
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