Everyone is always talking about African women's bottoms, and what masterpieces they are. Well, as an Arab woman with a nice derriere, I secretly resent that. Women from my ethnicity are wonderfully curvaceous, and lag behind no one when it comes to gluteus maximus, but that's a closely guarded secret. We're forced to hide our tremendous assets from the male gaze due to the rules of Islamic modesty. My name is Rabia Al-Sharif and I'm a young woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I'm here to set the record straight about that, and modern Arab female sexuality, among other things.
I'm five-foot-nine, curvy and lovely, with dark bronze skin, long curly black hair and golden brown eyes. Typically I wear brightly colored T-shirts and skin-tight jeans or short skirts that showcase my sexy legs and heart-shaped behind when I leave the house. Got to look classy but sexy, that's my motto when it comes to clothes in general. I recently obtained my motorcycle licence and I'm an avid rider. I purchased a bright crimson Ducati motorcycle.
No matter where one hails from, there will always be stereotypes that one cannot escape. Take my friend and roommate Amelia Rodriguez for example. We met during my first week at the University of Ottawa and I was surprised at how much Latin Americans resemble us Arabs. I thought Amelia was Lebanese until she told me that she was of Brazilian and Nigerian descent, born and raised in the environs of Manaus, somewhere in Brazil. What a shocker.
"You look so Arab it's not even funny," I told Amelia, who hesitated, then laughed. Relief washed over me, for I thought I might have inadvertently offended her. Shrugging casually, Amelia shook her head. "In Ottawa I get that a lot but I am actually mixed Brazilian," she replied. Damn, I didn't even know the gal had black in her but Amelia assured me that most people in Brazil had some African blood in their lineage somewhere, mixed with Native American and European, of course.
"Wow, an authentic Brazilian woman, in the flesh," I said, shaking my head while looking Amelia over, quietly amazed. I expected her to be wild and lively since that's what I heard about Brazilians, but Amelia turned out to be quite shy and rather quiet, the way my parents sometimes wish I were. I've always been a handful, a far cry from the serene, pious and obedient Muslim gal they raised me to be.
When you think of a Saudi Arabian woman, I bet you're thinking of the stereotype of the shy, repressed woman wearing the burka, fearing the dictatorship of the males of her family, and constantly lamenting her lot in life as a citizen of the world's most conservative nation. I bet you're not thinking of me, the rebel who shuns the burka and the hijab, and likes to race on the 417 Highway, heedless of the danger from oncoming traffic or the speeding tickets gleefully handed to me by grim-faced RCMP officers. I like to live on the edge, what can I say?
A lot of people in this world take life for granted, and don't appreciate what they have until it's gone. I am not such a person. I was born in the City of Safwa, eastern Saudi Arabia. My parents, Bahir and Tahirah Al-Sharif were part of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia's Shiite minority. If you know anything about Islam, then you'll know that being a Shiite Muslim in a mostly Sunni country, especially one as religious as Saudi Arabia, isn't exactly good for one's health. My father was an active critic of the Saudi royal family's excesses, and firmly believed that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was headed in the wrong direction.
To Shiite Muslims, the prophet Mohammed, founder of Islam, isn't the Seal of the Prophets but the predecessor of a coming figure called the Mahdi. We believe that the Mahdi will unite the Islamic world, defeat the forces of evil and lead us to total conquest of the entire world. To Sunni Muslims, that's sacrilege and they've been persecuting us Shiites for centuries. Very few Muslim countries have majority Shiite populations, Iran being one prime example. What does that have to do with my family?
Well, my father was a devoted follower of a controversial Shiite preacher named Suleiman Akbar, who thought himself the Mahdi. They fell on the List, that insidious list of people whom the Saudi royal authorities consider to be troublemakers. Suleiman Akbar was assassinated, and his followers rounded up and either imprisoned or executed. As for my father, he fled with my mother and I to Canada. That magical place that so many refugees flock to every year. I was only four at the time. The year was 1996. We've been living in Ontario, Canada, ever since.
Adjusting to Canada after a lifetime in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia wasn't easy for my parents. Hardship and constant disputes drove them apart. Eventually, they got divorced. I was in the ninth grade at the time. I know this sounds cold but divorce is the best thing that could have happened to them. Some people simply weren't meant to stay together. In the Islamic world, we have marriages of convenience for the most part.
Dad now drives a cab for Capital Taxi and spends much of his free time in the By Ward Market, either drinking in bars or bedding prostitutes. As for my mother, she lives in Gatineau, with a middle-aged Yemeni guy named Rafiq. I don't know if he's her friend, roommate or lover, or all three. And to be honest, I don't give a damn. I love my parents and I respect them but they've got their lives to live, and I've got mine. At the end of the day, only Allah can judge any of us.
Two sundays ago, I went to Mansion, a night club in downtown Ottawa, with Amelia by my side. It was her twentieth birthday and I didn't want her to spend it alone in her room at our apartment in Sandy Hill. "You need to stop living like an old lady and start having fun," I told Amelia, grabbing her by the arm as took her outside. "We'll see," Amelia said, in that shy yet mysterious way of hers, clearly unaware of how sexy she looked in a low-cut red dress. We hopped on my motorcycle and headed to Rideau Street.
While shaking my ass on the Mansion dance floor, I saw a vision of masculine beauty. Tall, dark and handsome, clad in a light purple silk shirt and black silk pants. One fine and strongly built brother, whom all the girls in the club couldn't help noticing. "Check out this cutie," I told Amelia, pointing her in the chocolate prince's direction. "He's fine alright," Amelia remarked, and smiled. I was already moving toward my target. I smiled at him flirtatiously, noted the quiet confidence he exuded, and decided I wanted this fish for myself.
I cockily went to the bar, and 'accidentally' bumped into Mr. Sexy, and apologized profusely for my clumsiness. "It's alright ma'am," he said, and I noted his distinct accent. The dude was clearly not from Ottawa. He didn't sound like the continental African immigrants I ran into from time to time in the clubs either. "Where are you from?" I asked, looking into his handsome face. Mr. Sexy flashed me a movie star smile. "Born and raised in Buffalo, New York, ma'am," he said proudly.
I licked my lips. "Welcome to Ottawa I'm Rabia, originally from Saudi Arabia," I said, and offered him my sleek, well-manicured hand to shake. Mr. Sexy shook my hand. Dude had a firm grip. Not crushing, just firm enough. "I'm Tyrese Montrose," he said, and flashed that smile again. He offered me a drink, and I happily accepted. "So what brings a man from Buffalo to Ottawa?" I asked Tyrese, my curiosity getting the better of me.
"A fresh start as far as school and work and a desire to get away from family drama," Tyrese said, a haunted look on his face. His eyes met mine, and all the coyness I felt inside drained from me. I knew where I had seen such a look before, a look of raw, elemental pain. "I can totally relate," I said grimly, smiling sadly at Tyrese. Slowly he nodded. "Next drink's on me," I said, downing my cup's contents in one gulp and not caring that it was unladylike.
Out of the corner of my eyes I noticed Amelia talking to a short-haired, tattooed, downright masculine woman clad in dark leather. So that's why Miss Brazil never seemed interested in guys, I thought wickedly. I looked at Tyrese, and smiled. "Let's dance," he said, and I happily accepted. Moments later, Tyrese and I hit the dance floor. The guy was smooth and graceful, and I felt good in his arms. "You're a good dancer," Tyrese whispered into my ear. I looked at him and smiled. "You got no idea," I said suggestively, licking my full red lips for emphasis.
I honestly don't remember how I ended up in Tyrese's bed, but I'm glad I got there. As it turns out, the American stud from Buffalo, New York, lives in an apartment building on King Edward Street, within walking distance of Mansion night club. Once we got to his place, Tyrese and I had some fun. I hadn't been with a man since my former lover, Jean Abdullah, a Lebanese Christian guy, asked me to move in with him and I ditched him to keep my independence.
"You're unlike anyone I've ever known," I told Tyrese as he laid me on his king-sized bed, and gazed lustfully at my naked body. After taking off my dress, and tossing aside bra and panties, I stretched luxuriously on Tyrese's bright blue and red, "Superman"-themed bed sheets, and spread my legs wide open, exposing my hairy cunt. "I've always wondered what you Arab women were like," Tyrese said, as he kissed my left foot then began sucking on my toes.
"We're wild and freaky like any other women don't let the hijabs and burkas fool you," I told Tyrese, licking my lips. Grinning, Tyrese kissed a path from my toes to my inner thigh, and finally brought his mouth to my cunt lips. He suck his tongue inside me, and I shuddered with pleasure as Tyrese began fingering and licking my cunt. "You taste wonderful," Tyrese said, pausing to look at me before he resumed pleasing me orally. "Love a man who goes downtown," I said, gently rubbing my breasts together.
