Somali Women Are Simply Divine

The things a man does when he's bored, man. Honestly, I'm not proud of what I've done. My name is Abdirashid "Rashid" Yussuf. I was born in the City of Toronto, Ontario, to a Somali immigrant father and Hispanic mother from the Republic of Colombia. My parents, Ali Yussuf and Ramona Ramirez got divorced in the third summer of my life. No, I'm not going to go all movie-of-the-week on you and blame my issues on being the product of a broken home. I'm more original than that, give me a little credit.

My parents split over the issue of religion. My pops is Muslim, like the majority of Somalis, and kind of conservative and my mother is equally passionate about her Catholic faith. Me? I'm a devout atheist. Does that surprise you? Honestly, I feel that the world would be a better place if we banned organized religion. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Paganism, and all the New Age crap. Seriously, religion is for the feeble minded.

I believe in science, in what I can see, quantify and measure. I believe that the laws of physics will eventually reveal fundamental truths about the nature of the universe, and man's place in it. I do NOT believe in an old white man in the sky. I think all religion is fiction, an opiate for the masses. The fact that many otherwise intelligent people still subscribe to such nonsense is a mystery to me. Wise up, people!

Now, given my contempt for all forms of religion, you might find it peculiar that I have a fondness for religious women. Simply put, I like to find the most conservative chick out there, the one who's the most passionate about her faith, and then corrupt her. I like to turn good religious girls into the wanton sluts I know they all are, deep inside. Let me tell you about some of my exploits, ladies and gentlemen.

After living in Toronto all my life, I felt like a change of scenery. That's why I came to Ottawa, and opted to study chemistry at Carleton University. It's a good thing I did because our nation's capital is a hubbub of immigrant migration. In my three years in Ottawa, I've seen people come and go. Tons of newcomers to Canada settle in the Ottawa metropolitan area. People from places like Africa, Latin America, the Caribbean, Asia and the Middle East. A lot of them cling fiercely to their traditions, a knee-jerk reaction brought on by the strangeness ( to them ) of Canadian culture. I find that fascinating. The world seen through the eyes of a newcomer.

I do like newcomer women from conservative backgrounds, like Charlotte Mahmoud, a plump, bronze-skinned and dark-haired Lebanese Christian chick I hooked up with last year. I met her while walking through Vanier one summer night, and came across an outdoor party being held at a local Arab Christian church. Fascinated, I infiltrated the premises, making small talk with Rahim, a Lebanese dude I recognized from the Carleton University library and using him to help me navigate this new environment.

You see, if you're a mixed guy, you can't simply waltz into a Lebanese Christian party, open to the public or not, and start chatting up the Senioritas. Running into Rahim was a stroke of luck, because he's a shy, portly fella, but he had a legitimate reason for being at the party, being Lebanese and all. He's the one who introduced me to Charlotte Mahmoud. I like big girls and I cannot lie. With her bronze skin, lovely dark eyes and raven hair, and that chubby-but-sexy body of hers, Charlotte Mahmoud seemed exotic to me. And judging by the way she eyed the Arab guys who came to the party with their white girlfriends, Charlotte needed some male attention. Ask and it shall be provided to you, I say.

I went after her with a vengeance, and turned on the charm. Charlotte was shy at first, and I embellished details of my ( nonexistent ) friendship with Rahim ( he's purely an acquaintance ) to legitimize my being the only half-black, half-Hispanic person at a very Arab party. Lucky for me, Charlotte was gullible. The gal is in medical school at the University of Ottawa but she's clearly naïve. And judging by the short black skirt and super-tight white tank top she had on, Charlotte wanted some action.

I took her back to my place at the end of the evening, and gave Charlotte Mahmoud a night to remember. I laid her on my bed, spread her thighs and gave her pussy a good licking. I've fucked all kinds of girls, from Jamaican chicks to Hispanic chicks and even a few Asian broads. Arab girls are usually an unreachable bunch because Arab guys are overprotective of them. These guys do NOT like seeing their women with guys from other communities. Still, if the Arab guys at the party valued Charlotte Mahmoud so much, they shouldn't have flashed their fondness for white women in front of her. This left her feeling rejected, easy prey for the likes of me.

Charlotte Mahmoud's delicious Lebanese Christian pussy tasted wonderful on my tongue. I licked and fingered Charlotte's snatch, and had the big, beautiful young Arab woman moaning and writhing on my bed. She got so into it that the bed shook violently, which worried me somewhat. Charlotte is five-foot-nine and way over two hundred pounds of woman shuddering while being pleasured. I'm a broke-ass university student. If she breaks my bed, I'll be pissed. I teased her clitoris with my tongue, and thrust my fingers deep inside her snatch. I worked her over until she squealed in delight.

Rolling a condom on my dick, I raised Charlotte Mahmoud's big sexy legs in the air and thrust my dick into her cunt. Charlotte lay there, looking at me blankly as I fucked her. I frigging hate it when chicks do that. Just lie there and take it. I call this the Pillow Princess Syndrome. Seriously, can you think of anything other than a pillow which simply lies there and takes it? Yeah, that's what I thought. I told Charlotte to rub her big tits together, and after a brief hesitation, she did as she was told.

Better and better, I thought, as I continued ramming my dick into her cunt. Only after I started fucking her real hard did Charlotte begin moaning and screaming. I fucked her like this for about half an hour, then pulled out after I got my nut. All in all, this was one lousy night. This chick wouldn't suck my dick or do anything fun in bed. Bitch just lay there, spread her thick legs and let me do all the work. I put her in a cab and said goodnight. No, I didn't call her back. Not because she gave it up so quick. Contrarily to what you might think, lots of guys like freaky chicks who like sex with no strings attached. We don't think badly of slutty chicks. We like them wild and freaky. Prudish chicks are boring and to be avoided at all costs. No, the reason why I promptly forgot about Charlotte Mahmoud is because she's boring in the sack. The one thing I can't forgive a woman. Next!

The first time I saw Sara Abuukar my heart skipped a beat. The tall, curvy Somali sister in the long dark skirt and dark hijab strode through the Bayshore Shopping Center like she owned the place, and yet I could sense her hesitation. Looking into those sparkling, doe-like brown eyes of hers, I knew at once that she was a newcomer. I approached her, and introduced myself as a member of her people. Even though I'm biracial, my features a blend of Somali and Colombian, Somali people still recognize me as one of their own. I take after my father, I guess. I'm six-foot-two, lean and athletic, with black hair, light brown skin and sharp, handsome features.

I speak the Somali language, along with quite a few others, including Arabic, Spanish, French and of course, English. Toronto is a multicultural town, you'll hear a dozen languages spoken on the bus or subway system any day of the week. From the way Sara spoke to me in Somali, I knew that my hunch was right. This gal was a newcomer to Canada. Sara Abuukar was born and raised in the Sanaag region of Puntland, and her aunt Mona, a long-time resident of Ottawa, recently sent for her. Sara had been in Ottawa for six months, newly got permanent resident status, and already she was chafing under her old aunt's roof. According to her, the old lady was bossy and domineering.

Sensing that Sara Abuukar needed a shoulder to cry on, I set about the delicate task of providing just that without getting friend-zoned. This chick is only eighteen years old, and grew up in a strict Muslim household. The freedom she found in Canada is not something she was prepared for. I befriended her, and taught her about things like Facebook and Twitter. I took her to the public library in downtown Ottawa and got her a library card. And since Sara was interested in finding a job, I took her to the social services department on Catherine Street to hook her up with some job training. All this I did within two weeks of meeting her. I had her convinced that I was an angel sent from on high to look after her. Sara practically worshipped me. What can I say? When the game is seduction, I am one of the MVPS!

One does not simply get a conservative, hijab-wearing Somali Muslim darling like Sara Abuukar into one's bed the same way one would a short-skirted blonde slut one picks up at a bar in the By Ward Market on a Friday night. With the ladies of Somalia, patience and perseverance go a long way. I had already made quite an impression on Sara. The question is, how to get her into my bed. Any suggestions?

I wasn't sure what to do about Sara Abuukar, man. I'd been taking this chick to movies and restaurants for two months, wining and dining her. I also showed her the few interesting spots in Ottawa, such as Parliament Hill and the various Museums such as the Museum of Nature, the Museum of Science and Technology, the War Museum and the Museum of Civilization. Wide-eyed and innocent, she absorbed it all, always thanking me profusely. A lot of chicks like it when I play Mr. Tour Guide. Still, I was starting to get bored. With females, typically I seduce them, then I go for the kill. Then it's yay or nay. With Sara, things aren't so simple.

No, I'm not going to say something punk-style like I've learned the error of my ways and I've fallen in love with Sara Abuukar or some shit like that. This isn't my way. All I'm saying is that I like her company. A lot of females these days are selfish and cruel, and I feel no guilt when I give them a taste of their own medicine. However, Sara wasn't like that. Not by a long shot. Sara got herself job working as a cashier at Loblaw's, and as soon as she got her first paycheck, guess what she did? The lady took me to a nice restaurant inside the Saint Laurent Mall and treated me to dinner...on her dime!

Now, I was pleasantly surprised. The women in my life typically think only of themselves. My mother deprived me of my father, preventing him from seeing me while I was growing up even though the judges and lawyers agreed on a joint custody agreement. The gender bias in the system allowed her to get away with it. Parental alienation syndrome at its best. It's only after I finished high school and moved out that I sought out my father. We've reconnected, and I'm happy he's back in my life. It doesn't take a talented psychologist to figure out that my mother's twisted relationship with me forever altered my impression of her entire gender. Hence why I sleep with women and then drop them, without attachment. No attachment equals no pain. Will I ever meet a woman who is not like the others? Someone who can genuinely care for me without manipulation, deception, silly games and the usual bullshit? I doubt it.

Still, sitting across from Sara Abuukar inside East Side Mario's restaurant, eating pasta and sandwiches and drinking Pepsis, I found myself intrigued by the tall, beautiful Somali gal sitting across from me. You've been like an angel to me and I wanted to thank you, Sara said with a sweet, fearless smile. I don't know why but my heart started beating mad fast when she said those words. I gently reached for her hand and squeezed it. You're amazing, I said, and smiled. Sara nodded, and I swear I saw her blush. We continued to eat, laughing and talking and having a good time.

Afterwards, I drove Sara back to the apartment she shared with her aunt on Ogilvie then went back to my place. As I lay on my bed that night, I thought of Sara Abuukar, my mind racing with the possibilities. I cannot recall the last time my heart beat that way around a female. Usually I see a pretty face, big ass and a nice set of tits and my dick gets hard, that's about it. There's something different about this chick. I find this possibility both exciting and disturbing, for reasons I can't explain.

Three nights later, our worlds changed irrevocably. I went home after a long day of classes at Carleton University. The night before, I worked security at a mall downtown and the twelve-hour overnight shift was painful. I hadn't seen Sara Abuukar but we kept in touch via text. She told me she wanted to enroll in school and was looking at either La Cite Collegiale or Algonquin College. Good for her. I promised to help her with that, and once more found myself wondering if I was getting in too deep with this chick. Every time I get close to a female and make myself vulnerable she plays me. Deja vu just isn't what it used to be, man. I'm only twenty two years old and I'm already world-weary and jaded when it comes to relationships.

Imagine my surprise when, around two in the morning, I heard my phone buzzing. Who the fuck is calling me at this hour? If it's the phone company with a shift, I'm cussing them. I don't know why I picked up, but it's a good thing I did. It was Sara Abuukar, and she told me her aunt just kicked her out. Man, I couldn't believe this shit. March 2014 in Ottawa turned out to be one of the coldest months of the year. The winter simply refused to go away. Who would throw out another human being in weather like this?

I put on my T-shirt and shorts, then grabbed my wallet and keys. I live on Montreal Road, near the cemetery. Sara's Ogilvie apartment isn't far from me. I picked her up at the Loblaw's on McArthur Road, it's open 24/7 now. She'd gone in seeking refuge from the cold. I met her at the entrance. When I saw her there, clad in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, without her hijab, her eyes red from crying, I went to her. I am so sorry, Sara said, and wept against my shoulder. It's going to be alright, I promised. And with that, I drove her back to my place.

I live in two-bedroom apartment, complete with a kitchenette, tiny living room and a washroom. It's not the Plaza Hotel, that's for sure, but Sara liked it. I told her I'd take the couch and she was welcome to take my bedroom. Sara just stared at me. Don't be silly, she said, then she kicked off her tennis shoes, and leapt on my bed. Side by side we lay on the bed, not fucking or anything, but cuddling. A mixed guy and a smoking hot Somali chick. In bed together. Sara hugged me tightly, her nubile body pressed against mine. This is so haram, I said weakly. Sara laughed. I don't care, she said, then she kissed me.

The next morning, I woke up to find Sara in my kitchen, and breakfast served. I went to Tim Horton's, she said with a grin. I looked at her, still wearing the same clothes from last night, with her long, gorgeous black hair cascading on her shoulders. Why do Muslims make their women hide their gorgeous hair? Such silliness. I looked at what she brought, amazed. Twin steaming cups of hot chocolate, four egg sandwiches and three hash browns, all this for the two of us. I had to smile. Good job mamas, I said. We sat together and ate breakfast, then Sara told me what happened. Apparently, she rebelled against dear aunt Mona's orders one too many times and the old bat kicked her out. I'm homeless, Sara said, her shoulders sagging a bit. When those words left her lips, I shook my head. You're always welcome wherever I am, I said, and I meant every word.

Sara looked at me, and I looked at her. Something passed between us. Slowly, she walked up to me and stood, an inch from me. I hesitantly pulled her closer, then kissed her. Sara kissed me back passionately, the supposedly repressed Somali gal I'd been expecting replaced by a passionate, downright wanton and totally wild woman. Hastily we undressed each other. Off came my T-shirt and shorts, followed by her sweatpants and shirt. I was delighted to discover that, like me, Sara wore no underwear. I looked at her, tall, curvy and beautiful, with her large breasts, wide hips and big butt. My gorgeous Somali amazon.

I grabbed Sara bodily and put her on the kitchen counter, then I spread her shapely thighs. Be careful, Sara said, biting her lips. I nodded, promising to be gentle. Then I began licking her hairy, lovely pussy. I inhaled the scent of Sara's pussy. When I did this, she shuddered and looked at me hesitantly. I didn't wash yet, she said meekly. Winking at her, I slid my fingers inside her cunt and began licking her. When all my efforts seemed to have little effect on Sara, I paused. Was it my technique or something else? I took a closer look at her womanhood, and saw...the difference. Like so many Somali girls, Sara had been...modified. If there is one aspect of Somali culture I despise, it's female genital modification. This barbaric practice should be outlawed globally.

I looked up at Sara, and looked at this gorgeous, nervous young woman looked down at me. My Somali goddess, I said breathlessly, then I resumed licking her pussy. I probed and licked and lathered those gentle folds with my tongue, and fingered her. At last, Sara began to respond. Her back arched on the kitchen counter, her legs trembled and her body shuddered. I stuck my tongue into her cunt like a spear, and twisted it around. A sharp cry escaped her lips, followed by a delectable ooh. I smiled. There's still life in the old gal, eh? I continued what I was doing, licking and probing her sweet pussy until she cried out in pleasure, louder than ever before, all restraint lost, an orgasmic woman. As she shuddered, I gathered her into my arms, admiring my handiwork. Sara looked at me, her eyes fluttering. Oh wow, she said. I winked at her. I've got skills, babe, what can I say?

Sara and I definitely crossed some boundaries that morning, and quite frankly, I'm happy we did. The next day, we went to the social services office and explained her situation with a worker. They agreed to put her temporarily on social assistance. I helped her get on her feet, and found a one-bedroom furnished bachelor pad in Overbook which suited her just fine. The building owner is a nice old French lady. Rent is only three hundred a month in that place, a perfect fit for Sara. Working forty hours a week at Loblaw's for eleven bucks per hour, she could make it work. I promised her I'd help her every step of the way.

Look, I am fond of Sara Abuukar and I want what's best for her. I want her to be happy. At the same time, I don't want to get hurt. I know this gal is different, and she told me she cares deeply for me. You're the first person I ever let touch me that way, Sara assured me. I do love making love to her, in every way. Sara is definitely a newcomer to such things and I delight in teaching her. The first time Sara let me inside of her, my manhood deep inside her cunt, it was a teaching moment and a wonderful experience for both of us. My Somali sweetheart lost her virginity to me and wants to be with me always. I don't want to take advantage of her but I also don't want to get hurt. What's a fella to do?

I decided to play it by ear. I'd help Sara and if she came back to me, then she was the real deal and not a selfish, manipulative broad like the others who used me. If she ditched me as soon as I was no longer useful, then I guess we know the answer to that question, don't we? I'd have to move on, slowly and painfully, just like all the other times I let a female get close to me and she hurt me. After Sara moved into her apartment in Overbrook, she still came by my place and we hung out sometimes but I began to see less and less of her. I guess we saw this one coming, didn't we? Heartbroken, I decided to focus on school and work.