My Sexy Mature Hijabi

I will receive endless condemnation for what I'm about to do, but I don't care. At what point does my life belong to me? My name is Azhaar Tawwab Azzam. I am fifty two years old. I live in the City of Minneapolis, Minnesota, and I've lived there for thirty years. Ever since I left the Dagari region of the Somali Republic. I love Minnesota, it's the most beautiful area of the United States in my humble opinion. What I'm about to share with you is truly forbidden knowledge. However, I must unburden myself. Who knows how much time any of us have left on this earth?

As I sit at my computer, typing these words on Microsoft Word, I can almost hear the sound of gentle snoring. It brings a smile to my lips. My Gino is still fast asleep. I chance a glance at our bedroom door, which I left ajar. I can see him lying on the bed, fast asleep. Gino. The man who injected life into my dreary existence at a time when I honestly looked heavenward and wondered why go on. For decades I've been a pillar of strength, not just for my family but also for the growing Somali-American community of metropolitan Minneapolis. Last week, my son Asad Azzam dropped a bomb on us. He's coming out as bisexual...and he's also leaving Islam. This profoundly shocked many members of our family, to say the least. I wasn't shocked. I know Asad. I gave birth to the knucklehead, after all.

The little cherub I never stopped cherishing grew to be a six-foot-four, handsome devil with light brown skin, piercing dark brown eyes and curly Black hair. He's got such potential, but always wasted it. He's always been good at mathematics and science. When I encouraged him to attend Walden University for civil engineering, he went to Woody College instead. As a schoolteacher, I was disappointed because I felt he made the wrong choice but as his mother I supported him. He graduated from Woody College with an Associate's degree in Computer Science, then went to Capella University for his Master's degree in Information Technology. Along the way, he met Heather Warren. The woman who would prove to be his undoing. A lot of Black mothers don't like seeing their sons with white women. Let me make this clear. I am not one of them. However, I simply didn't understand what Asad saw in Heather. For starters, she's not Muslim and also, she's not very pretty. She's tall, dresses kind of masculine and has short blond hair and green eyes. Come to think of it, Asad has always had a thing for tomboys growing up. Why did he have to pick the President of the Christian Students Association at Capella University?

Asad has never been very religious, and in spite of my best efforts, he avoids the mosque like the dental office. From early on he was drawn to places of ill repute. How many young guys do you know try to sneak into night clubs as high school freshmen? Asad's love affair with liquor and fast girls began early, and I blamed myself for it. I told myself that if I hadn't divorced his father, Muhammad Azzam, things might have turned out differently. Muhammad and I fell out of love, pure and simple. We met as young people in the town of Mogadishu, Somalia, and later ran into each other in the City of Minneapolis, Minnesota. I fell in love with Muhammad. At the time, he was really something. A tall, good-looking Somali-American gentleman with a bachelor's degree in business from the University of Minnesota. The guy was charming, and well-known to the Somali community and the African-American community at large. He was destined for greatness, that's what I thought.

When Muhammad asked me to marry him, I couldn't believe my luck. I was in school, trying to get my teaching certification. I was smitten with my new husband and thanked Allah for setting him on my path. Muhammad was very modern in his thinking. Long before the Western media started making a fuss about hijab-wearing Muslim women in schools and the workplace, Muhammad firmly believed that women shouldn't be forced to wear anything because of religion or tradition. To him, God lived in our hearts. Headscarves and other religion-specific garments made little difference. Muhammad also supported liberal causes. A lot of Somali guys living in America and Canada aren't as progressive. My new husband was thoroughly westernized. He even owned a dog, a German shepherd named Lucky, whom I eventually grew to love. I loved my husband. He was the sun and the moon to me.

Then came our son Asad, and Muhammad's long hours at the corporation where he worked. I was working hard as a schoolteacher at Saint Martin Academy, an elite and mostly white school. In spite of my best efforts, I put on weight. I didn't feel beautiful, even though Muhammad assured me I looked good to him. I felt that I was neglecting my wifely duties. We began an exercise regimen together. For a while, everything seemed fine. Our bedroom was rocking at night again, as it should. Then came his affairs with loose women, usually trashy blonde women and the occasional redhead. Once, I caught him getting a blow job from Aida, a nineteen-year-old, hijab-wearing Somali immigrant gal from the Washington Avenue area of Minneapolis. There he was, lying naked on the bed that he shared with me, his darling wife. He had his pants down, and was stroking that big ole dick which used to bring me so much pleasure. Kneeling between his legs was Aida, the gal I once asked to look after our son Asad while I went to work at Saint Martin Academy, where I taught applied mathematics. Aida, the gal I trusted and considered akin to a sister to me. Aida was sucking my husband's dick as if her life depended on it. Muhammad uttered cuss words at her as she sucked his dick and licked his balls.

I stood there, frozen, outside my open bedroom door. I remember screaming. You should have seen the look on their faces. Muhammad's eyes widened. Aida jumped, and cried in fright. I took off my shoes and threw them at the no-longer-happy copulating couple. Then I ran. I rushed to Asad's room, and snatched him. I went to my brother Darwish's house, halfway across town. Thus ended our marriage. I divorced Muhammad three months later. I swore off relationships with men, and focused on paying the bills and raising my son Asad. That was decades ago. I prayed Asad wouldn't turn out like his father. He did. He likes drinking, partying and loose women. And not just women. I once saw him kiss Andrew, the light-skinned Jamaican guy who lived next door. I never told him I saw the two of them fooling around in the basement. I didn't know what to make of it. I read that sometimes, same-sex experimentation occurs among young people. Most of them grow out of it. Some persist in it and become gays and lesbians. Since I later caught Asad making out with a blond-haired gal named Becky in the basement, I assumed his same-sex experimentation was over. I thought my son was a normal, heterosexual guy like most men.

I shouldn't be surprised at the turns his wild life took, considering these early embraces which drew him. Yet I still held onto the hope that he'd do me proud someday. Asad graduated from Capella University with his Master's degree in Information Technology. I was so proud of him. Then he came to his graduation party and surprised all of our relatives by declaring three things. One, he's bisexual. Two, he's in love with a white guy named Matthew. The fireman who lives next door. Three, his ex-girlfriend Heather Warren is pregnant and he thinks he's the father. I four, since he knows how unforgiving both the Somali community and the Islamic diaspora at large are toward homosexuals, he's decided to leave Islam. I passed out right after those words left his lips. I woke up at Abbott Hospital. My older brother Darwish and his Lebanese wife Juhaynah were by my side to help me weather the storm, as usual. First the father abandoned me, and now the son. Must be something in the blood, or perhaps I'm paying Allah for a past sin. Who knows?

It's been a while since I laid eyes on my son Asad. Rumor is his boyfriend Matthew left him. I guess it wasn't true love after all. He's now living with Heather Warren with their newborn son Arthur. Wow. Apparently, they got married. He converted to Christianity to be with her. He's even given my grandson a Christian name. Little Arthur isn't even circumcised because apparently his mother considers it barbaric and unnecessary. Imagine that. Oh, well. I say a silent prayer to Allah. It's his life. He's grown. I wish him the best. Maybe one day, we shall be in speaking terms again. I hold no hate toward my only son for leaving Islam. He was never religious to begin with. I strongly dislike him for walking out on his family, just like his father did. Oh, well. Not much I can do about that. He is who and what he is. I'm now living my life.

As I type these words, I am so absorbed in my thoughts that I barely feel Gino as he sneaks up behind me. Suddenly, strong arms grab me from behind. Gino gently kisses me on the neck. I look into his handsome, bearded face. Gino is forty two, Italian-American, Catholic, and he teaches physics at Saint Martin Academy. Oh, and he's recently divorced. I met him at work and although we bumped heads a few times, we get along wonderfully. We've become lovers. I know he's not Muslim and honestly I don't care. I've done my duty for God, country and family. My life belongs to me. Gino makes me happy. We live together. And what goes on between us is nobody's business. Gently, I kiss him on the lips. This handsome man whom I love so much. He takes me by the hand and leads me back to bed. I drop my bathrobe, and snuggle against his hairy chest. I kiss him again, and we begin making love.