The Arab

Chapter 1.-1

“You know you can’t sleep with all the women you fancy.”

“Why not? Remember, I can do whatever I want.”

I hate these American whores anyway. They are up for absolutely anything. Just flash a few dollars or a bit of gold at them, and they will be taking off their panties, no questions asked. Same goes for European bitches. I don’t mean the professional ones, I mean those gorgeous young women who just want to earn a bit of cash. And I, Jamal Ibn Hussain Ibn Abdul al-Sudairi, can give them that.

“You should marry a Saudi lady meant for you, and start making sons.”

A Saudi lady meant for me? I can and will marry not one, but at least four. And I will use them to bear me sons. Not daughters though. I don’t want any daughters! That’s how I was raised. I don’t give a damn about so-called emotions. I am used to surrounding myself with whores and luxury. Amir is the only person who doesn’t try to get me to mend my ways. He is my cousin, but he is really like a brother to me. He is twenty-nine, I’m twenty-seven. Amir already has three wives, two daughters and a son, but this doesn’t mean he would ever miss out on a saucy fling.

“Are you flying back to Riyadh?” he asks, takes a sip of coffee, pulls a face and swallows it.

I never drink coffee in America. In Europe I can find decent coffee sometimes, which tastes like the Arabic variety, but I hate everything American.

“We closed the deal, so our business here is finished. But I’m not going back. I have to fly to Europe.”

Amir takes another sip and pulls another face. The tall, skinny blonde waitress watches him and grins. I’m sure she has figured out already that we are oil millionaires here.

Bitch.

“If you go to Europe now, you won’t be back on time. And if you miss the pilgrimage again this year, your father will skin you alive.”

Yep.

He is right, I shouldn’t miss the pilgrimage. Last year I couldn’t make it because I was stuck in this lousy country due to some business arrangements. Business is important of course, but we have different values. My father was furious.

Every Muslim man must make the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in a lifetime. As the holy city is in my country, Saudi Arabia, we take part almost every year. It makes me feel at peace.

I had strict Islamic education as a child.

I hate the tent cities where commoners stay. We always book into the five-star hotels nearby, but that’s all the comfort we can get. During the Hajj{1} season it is forbidden to shave, to drink alcohol and to have s*x. Women don’t hide their faces behind veils, because men look at them differently during pilgrimage. Mecca is like a border. Everyone must obey strict rules. Mecca is the city of Allah, the city of God’s Laws. All Muslims must live according to Sharia{2} law, and there is no place in the holy city for non-Muslims.

My biggest problem is the lack of amusements. Once I stayed in a hotel and broke the rule of abstaining from s*x, which meant that my entire pilgrimage became worthless. All that praying and sacrifices were for nothing. It felt like s**t, and I have obeyed the rules ever since.

My family substituted for the pilgrimage a few times, which is done by sending someone else on our behalf, and donating a huge amount of money. Funnily enough, this is accepted in our society. We had no other solution at that time, because my father, Prince Hussain Ibn Abdul al-Sudairi was very sick. During those years none of his sons visited Mecca. He has more than ten sons, officially at least. My father has four wives, but luckily his favorite is Nubia, my mother, so his sons by her are his favorite sons.

So we were expecting my father to die, but he miraculously recovered. Allah loves him, He always has.

“I will send someone to substitute for me. And it’s my own business whether I go or not; I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“It’s to your conscience you owe an explanation.”

Mecca is quite far from Riyadh. The holy city is near the Red Sea, but the capital, Riyadh, is in the center of the country.

The skinny blonde totters up to us and puts a bowl of peanuts on our table. Amir stares, and his eyes say everything. She is pretty, but I don’t fancy thin girls. She had her breasts done, but she has hips like a little girl.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She is smiling and eying me first, then she turns her attention to Amir. I adjust my trousers. They’re getting uncomfortably tight, because the way this b***h is looking at me makes my d**k stand up.

Amir glances at me, then at the girl, then a faint smile appears on his face.

No way! I’m certainly not going to agree to a threesome.

My cousin is madly in love with his first wife, yet he never says no to casual s*x. And he has the cheek to tell me not to f**k all the women I fancy. He said that because I paid a good deal of attention to a woman with a ponytail and a great big ass. Oh, the things I could have done to her… Arabs usually like women with plump breasts and a nice big bottom. We don’t consider them overweight, especially because we also like them to have a slender waist and shapely legs.

“Nothing else for me, thank you,” I reply, and I can feel my stupid cousin kick my leg under the table.

“We have lovely pancakes,” she teases, and I know she is not really talking about pancakes at all.

Actually I quite like these girls. They don’t hesitate much; they make their offers quite fast. My eyes run all over her, and I can see Amir grinning next to her. The blonde is staring right next to me now.

All right. So you want to hook up.

“Okay, tell me about those pancakes,” I say and I glance at her narrow hips.

Amir immediately understands that the game has started. He leans back in the huge, black armchair and covers his smile with his cup. The blonde pats down her dress and fiddles with her hair.

I’d like to bury my fist in that hair too.

“It’s lovely with maple syrup.” She licks her lips.

Ah, so cheap!

I can’t get in the mood, even though I’m already rock hard. I’d like to f**k, but not this girl. She can sense the mood chilling, so she tries to save the day.

“I’ll get you some, and if you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns and goes back to the bar. She whispers something to a woman standing there. She is short, with pixie-cut, black hair, and now she is staring at us, grinning. I’m sure she is going to make a move too. This is one of the reasons I hate America. I don’t even need to negotiate. Trade and business are a crucial part of my life. We have oil fields in Saudi Arabia, so we have to deal with this so-called developed world. They call us the third world, or the developing world, and what would you expect of a third-world country? Backward lifestyle, low standard of living. All kinds of negative things. But this so-called third world is not exactly as those damned Americans and Europeans imagine. Saudi Arabia is one of the richest countries in the world. Oil production started in 1946, and that brought along a lot of improvements. Luxury replaced our desert nomad lifestyle. Members of the royal family (including me) earn money from every inch of the land. Because every inch of the land hides something we can sell. In our country all land-related business adds to our vast wealth. In fact, we are so wealthy that according to the king the country has more money than it can spend. Honestly, has any American or European country ever made a similar announcement? No way! The United States and the EU. They lend money to member states, they influence one another’s economy, then they have the audacity to call us the third world. I think we are the first. It’s evident even from the way these women target us.

“Are you going to f**k her?”

Amir leans forward to ask the question and for a moment I don’t even know who he means. I glance toward the bar and I see those giggling girls loading pancakes on some plates.

“Ibrahim is not here. He flew to Europe. I can’t do it without him.”

Amir c***s his brow. He knows I really take this seriously. Ibrahim is my personal physician. He analyzes my blood sample every month and he also examines me down there regularly. He also has another important task: he examines the women I am about to f**k. I never use condoms, so the women must be clean. Pure as snow. This is another reason why I don’t go into casual s*x with just anybody. I have the whores examined, I pay them and I enjoy them. I don’t care whether they enjoy me or not. These blondes live in a dream world if they think they can seduce the likes of me.

“You could just use a condom for a change,” my cousin reproaches me.

I have tried that in the past and I regretted it. It felt like something was taken away from me. Like my right to possess the woman was taken from me somehow. Women are only good for one thing in my opinion: to satisfy me. And I like my satisfaction without rubber.

Of course the whores don’t care either way. They would do anything for money, but I am more responsible than that.

A wife would be different, of course! She is the support of her husband, just like Islam is the support of men. She must be respected, appreciated and treated well. The world has a mistaken idea about this. Foreigners imagine that our religion orders us to oppress and humiliate women, but it’s not true. The Koran tells men to delight their wives and provide for them. Our relationship with women from other cultures is a different matter, though. These bitches are not my wives, so I will not give them anything other than money. Perhaps I’m punishing them. Sometimes I can feel their desire. They want me, but I leave them unsatisfied on purpose. s****l satisfaction is also a kind of gift, and I am not giving myself to any lowly American b***h.

Both girls start walking toward us; they glance at each other trying to hide their smiles. They are around twenty-five, I think, but I’ve given up trying to estimate women’s age. Once I slept with a hot chick in Brazil; she had an amazingly perfect body, and later I found out she was forty-four. I was shocked, but somehow it felt right nonetheless. It meant that women of all ages are good for a f**k.

The blonde suddenly looks at me and I go hard down below.

Okay, so you can stare.

Her skirt is dangerously tight on her narrow hips; the dress rides higher with every step. She isn’t bothered, and she doesn’t even try to adjust it. She has shapely thighs and pretty blue eyes. Other than that she is nothing special. Not even her blonde hair excites me the way it usually does. The other girl is shorter and a lot shyer. These shy ones are usually hell in the sack. I imagine running my fingers through her short, black hair, but it does nothing for me.