What's up, people? My name is Marc Aurel, and I'm a Haitian-Canadian businessman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I work for the Canadian government, and these days, life simply couldn't get any better. Not easy for a brother to get a good job in this town, even with an MBA from an accredited and highly ranked Canadian university. I do what I can, though. Can't let the haters get to you. Got to believe in yourself, educate yourself and power on through. It's the only way to go.
Working hard towards a goal is an admirable thing to do, but one must always make time for the simple pleasures of this life. That's why I'm taking my sweet time seducing the latest Somali cleaning lady in my office building. Amal Bashir, the fifty-year-old newcomer from Mogadishu, Somalia, is something else. Tall, dark-skinned, curvaceous and lovely, with a thick heart-shaped ass that I couldn't help but notice even though Amal had a traditional Islamic skirt on.
I want some of that, I thought to myself as Amal Bashir walked by pushing a cleaning cart on my floor late one night. What is it about them Somali women and their mesmerizing butts? I swear, Somalia must be a booty factory or something! I really must visit that country someday. Um, nope. Since I don't want to get beheaded by some religious nutcase, I think I'll just stay here in Canada and enjoy the local Somali booties, oops, I meant local Somali beauties.
Now, when dealing with a Somali lady, especially one who wears the hijab and dresses conservatively, there are certain elements to consider. Women like that don't respond to your standard flirting, so you must be discrete, respectful and careful when dealing with one. Amal Bashir is a newcomer straight from Somalia, and Canada must seem like a strange, different place to her. As an immigrant myself, I can kind of relate to what she must be going through. That's how I'll reach her, I thought to myself.
That's why, the next time I saw Amal Bashir at work, I made sure to politely greet her, and let her see me with a copy of the Koran in my hand. Upon seeing me holding the holy book of her faith, Amal looked at me pensively. The lady asked me if I was Muslim. I hesitated, and then sincerely told her my well-rehearsed line. I find the Eurocentric lies of mainstream Christianity offensive and want to learn the truth, I told Amal, with some anger in my voice.
Amal smiled, and said Masha'Allah, and then told me that if I had any questions about Islam, I could ask her. I nodded, and voiced my anger at Eurocentric Christianity essentially forcing people to worship white male authority figures, and depowering people of color with their lies. Amal nodded and said that she totally agreed. The Son of Mary, a Holy Messenger of Allah was considered a person of color in Islamic teachings, Amal assured me.
For at least half an hour, Amal and I sat there, talking. We discussed the religion of Islam, the fate of people of color in North America, racism in the City of Ottawa and the challenges facing immigrants in the province of Ontario. The two of us seemed to have far more in common than I previously imagined. And now to close the deal, I thought.
I looked into Amal's lovely eyes, and asked for her number. So we can discuss Islam further, I was quick to say. I saw hesitation in Amal's eyes, and tried to look as innocent as possible. Yes, look into my eyes lady, I thought. I know women, and how to fool them when it suits my purpose. That's how I turned the previous Somali cleaning lady, Fatima Jawari, into my sex slave. I had fun with the lovely young Somali gal, and after turning her out, I got rid of her. What can I say? I like a challenge, but grow bored after victory. Lots of men feel the same way, I think.
Amal Bashir sighed, and then, whatever soul searching she was doing while looking in my eyes must have been fruitful, for she finally told me her number. I grinned, and punched it in my Blackberry. Wallahi I'll be in touch, I told Amal with a gentle nod. Amal smiled, and then excused herself, for she had to get back to work. I nodded understandingly, wished her well, and then went back to my office. Game, set and match, I thought, smiling victoriously.
Look, every man reading this knows, getting a gal's number doesn't automatically lead to anything, much less getting into her pants. Amal Bashir and I had to do a little song and dance before we got there. If we got there, I mean. That's the thing about the game of seduction, you just can't be sure how long it will take. Depends on the person, the place, and a variety of other factors. Too many to list here.
For the next couple of weeks, Amal Bashir and I would meet on a nightly basis, and little by little, the Somali MILF got more comfortable with me. Got to wear them conservative Muslim ladies down, that's the only way to go. We would meet in my office and talk, and sometimes I'd offer her some food which I'd order from the nearby Shawarma place. Eventually, Amal got comfortable enough with me to meet me outside the office, a small but decidedly significant victory in the long game I was playing with her.
It was during one of those late-night heart to heart talks that I saw the lovely Miss Amal Bashir's weakness. What am I talking about? The lady's Kryptonite. Her one vulnerable spot. That which, when fully exploited, will have her in my bed with her legs spread. Amal told me about her former husband Ali, the dude who apparently left her for a white woman named Margaret. As you can imagine, I was all ears.
With anger on her beautiful face, Amal Bashir told me about Ali, her wretch of a former hubby, whom she caught in bed with Margaret, their landlady at the apartment that they shared in Vanier. You poor thing, I said as gently as I could, looking into Amal's moist eyes and trying hard not to smile. Every black woman's nightmare is to be left for a white woman. When such a doomsday scenario occurs, the lady in question becomes quite vulnerable to both suggestion and manipulation. Any port in a storm and all that.
Amal had tears in her eyes by the time she finished telling me the story of how her husband Ali divorced her to be with Margaret, a fat white woman who didn't even follow the beautiful religion of Islam! I got up from my chair and gently put my arms around Amal. Now, as someone who chases ( and routinely beds ) Muslim women for fun, I'm well aware of their cultural taboos. Touch-me-not is standard operating procedure between Muslim women and males whom they're unrelated to.
Still, there are certain moments in this life when we've got to put the religious and cultural stuff aside and remember our common humanity. I put my arms around Amal Bashir to comfort the weeping lady in distress, as any man worthy of the name would do. Ask any man, we hate watching women cry. I'm sorry my dear I couldn't help it, I said apologetically, looking into Amal's tear-filled eyes. I held my breath and waited. I thought Amal would go all Islamic on me and tell me that I was crossing the line and all that jazz...but instead, what the gorgeous Somali did stunned me.
Amal Bashir looked into my eyes, and then, without warning, the lady grabbed my face with a force that surprised me, and kissed me. That's right, folks, this hijab-wearing, long-skirted, totally prim and proper Somali Muslim lady, this Hooyo ( mama ) straight from Somalia, made the first move. How do you like them apples? Caught me by surprise, that's for damn bloody sure.
I looked at Amal, and saw a depthless passion in those eyes of hers. I smiled and so did she. Without a word being spoken, we began making love. Right here in my office. Impromptu, I know, but I've never been the type to hesitate in the face of unexpected opportunity. Do you honestly think I was about to turn down some delicious Somali pussy? Hell no to the power of ten, seriously!
