Afro Persian Romance

This is why I'm hot. I'm the six-foot-tall, brown-skinned and dark-eyed Afro-Persian beauty you can't take your eyes off as I stride through the Boston University campus. Clad in my long blue winter jacket over dark blue jeans, my hair covered by a fashionable White hijab, I look hotter than most of the bare-headed Infidel chicks you see walking around downtown in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. And I got more booty than the average Black female, though I was raised far from any African or Caribbean nation. My father Ali hails from the United Arab Emirates and my mother Aamina comes from the Republic of Somalia. Most Saudi women don't look like me but I am nevertheless a proud daughter of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. My student identification card says Zainab Al-Fatah but you can call me Temptress because that's what I am.

As I make my way through the hallways, I know all eyes are on me. So many lustful men and envious, nervous women. Hmmm. It's my game and I love playing it. Who shall be my toy today? A bearded, chubby Arab guy winks at me. I flash him a smile a shark would recognize and he looks away. As if. Simply being from the Middle East doesn't work as an aphrodisiac when dealing with me. Later, chunky. A blond-haired White guy freezes while I lock eyes with him. He was groping a dark-skinned Afro-Caribbean chick with kinky hair and she seemed to be in heaven. Only now he's spotted me, and completely forgotten about her. I ignore him and keep walking.

Finally, I see something interesting. A tall, broad-shouldered and simply magnificent specimen of the male gender. He's Black as midnight, with dreadlocks cascading on his shoulders like a mane. Oh, and he actually moves like a lion through the throngs of students. Clad in a bright red hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans, he stands out. On his head he wears the blue and red flag of the Republic of Haiti, which I recognize after seeing it in the news so many times after the quake-induced tragedy. This magnificent prowler makes his way to the campus library. He carefully navigates his way through the crowd of students, yet nobody touches him and he touches no one. I watch in amazement as he moves with startling agility. By Allah, he's so beautiful. And he's completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is staring at him. He tugs on his backpack as he crosses through the quad and heads for the Mugar Memorial Library steps. He grabs the door, and holds it open for a chubby White chick who practically gushes with thanks. I roll my eyes, and slow my pace. He moves through the front doors, past the dreadlocked clerk behind the desk. Past the long line of students waiting for computers, groaning in frustration because the library is packed and it's rush hour.

My eyes follow this unforgettable man as he practically streaks through the library, and sits at a table alone in the backroom. I have to quicken my pace to catch up with him. He sits at a table, and removes a thick tome from his backpack. He cracks open the book, and immediately begins scribbling in his notebook. His arrival in the study area is noticed by every female in the vicinity. A tall, blonde-haired young White woman chews on her pencil while trying not to gawk at the African lion sitting twenty feet from her computer terminal. A portly Asian gal who was flirting with a nerdy, bespectacled White male sneaks a peak at my prey's biceps as he flexes them. Hmmm. He's got magnificent arms. I wouldn't mind running my fingers over them. Not at all.

I stand near a shelf stacked with books nobody has touched in years. The autobiographies of luminaries from America's early days. Who needs that garbage? George Washington is dead. Get used to it. I chance a glance at the stud. He's deep into his book, and the vultures are circling. The blonde chick at the nearby computer is stretching and looks just about ready to get up. Is she going for a bathroom break...or is she going after MY prey? Her eyes swivel in the direction of the Black scholar that sits alone, oblivious to the world around him as he reads. I lick my lips. This won't do. I won't let this fine piece of chocolate fall into the hands of an alabaster twit. Not if I can help. Blondie's eyes meet with mine. In the wordless language of women, we communicate. Back off, my eyes say. She smiles. That cocky smile so many Canadian women of the Caucasian persuasion flash to girls like me. She thinks that because I wear the hijab I must be some simple-minded, submissive twit. Apparently, all Muslim women are dumb and submissive and Western women are amazons and goddesses. As if. I grit my teeth, then smile. Her eyes sent me a challenge. She is about to make a move. Two can play that game, sister.

I walk to my target, moving swiftly yet calmly. I 'accidentally' bump against the Black scholar's elbow, and he drops his pen. I excuse myself, and bend down to pick up the pen. It's alright, he says. His eyes meet mine. They widen. Hmmm. He looks even more beautiful up close. Fine African features, with a hint of the Western in them. Later, I'll learn that he was born to a Haitian father and Tamil Indian mother. I hand him his pen, and he takes it. His fingers brush up against mine. My eyes don't leave his. I look at his heavy book, and ask him what he's working on. He smiles and tells me he's working on a project for his African Literature class. I can hear the pride in his voice. I ask him who his professor is and the name barely leaves his lips before I tell him that I had that same professor last semester. He smiles. Small world, eh? I ask how his work is coming along and he tells me he's struggling. I gaze at him kindly, and tell him that I'd be happy to help him. When he tells me he couldn't impose, I stop him. I tell him it's no problem. Helping strangers is recommended by Allah, after all.

I sit across from him, and introductions follow. Thus, I meet Jean-Michel LeRoi. Proud son of Michel LeRoi of Cap-Haitien, Northern Haiti, and Ampal Aruvi of the Tamil Nadu region of the Republic of India. He's a sophomore at Boston University. Born in the Caribbean but raised in the City of Atlanta, Georgia. He used to attend the prestigious Morehouse College, if you can believe that. The alma mater of Dr. King is a place this fine stud once called home. Wow. I proudly tell him that I'm a transfer from Murdoch University in Dubai City, United Arab Emirates. Yes, there are Western-style secular schools in the Arab world. Jean-Michel looks at me with fascination in his eyes. He's got a million questions, and none of them are about African Literature. I'm distracting him from his assignment, poor guy, but I don't think he minds. While we talk, I glance at our surroundings. Blondie's eyes glare at me balefully. Clearly this blonde twit wanted my fine piece of masculine chocolate for herself and I've spoiled her fun. Hmmm. Too bad.

Over the next hour, Jean-Michel and I really get to know each other. He's so dreamy. The guy isn't just beautiful. He's smart as a whip, and very friendly and earnest. A lot of smart guys are full of themselves but not this one. And did I mention how FINE he is? A woman with less composure would have started drooling. I barely noticed the time going by. Watching Jean-Michel's sexy lips move while he spoke was...hypnotic. It was around three when I walked into the library and my watch just chimed five. It's time for me to go to work. I work at Jam'n 94.5 Radio. The same station as radio personalities Ramiro and Pebbles, who are famous in Boston circles. I'm an up and coming nighttime DJ for them. Isn't that cool?

I've got to go home, rest and get ready for work. Before leaving, I give Jean-Michel my phone number. I pray he won't be one of those fools who make a woman wait two days before hollering. I step up, flash him a smile full of regret, and tell him I've got to go. I hold my hand out for him to shake, and he surprises me by kissing it. Hmm. Tickles. Nobody's ever kissed my hand before. I like, I like. I wave him goodbye, then head for the train station. I can't wait to see him again. Ladies, when it comes to snatching a super fine brother, that's how it's done. I'm not bragging but I'm one of the best womankind has to offer. And since I'm a nice, sweet and friendly hijabi, no one ever sees me coming. Isn't that sweet?