The Arab

Chapter 1.-3

My sister Maysa is just two years younger than me, and my other sister, Nasire, is five years my junior. They are married to distant cousins and have children of their own. Fatima, my eldest sister is ten years older than me; I was never really close to her. By the time I was six she flew the nest and moved to Jeddah. I see her once a year if I take part in the pilgrimage, because we usually visit her family then.

So as I was saying, two girls were waiting for me in a secluded room that day. I still remember the scent of roses on their skin. Heavy gold brocade curtains blocked out the light. The air conditioner worked hard to combat the heat outside. The room was cool, which made the girls’ n*****s pucker. Both were so skinny I actually worried I would break them. They had absolutely no body hair, and immediately asked me what I wanted. I think this experience decided my preference for average-built women over model-thin bodies. They were around twenty years old and well experienced. They fell upon me like lionesses upon their prey. I later found out they were women of my father’s harem, so I feel disgusted whenever I remember the situation. It’s unsavory to f**k the same women my father had f****d. I didn’t visit them again.

I distinctly remember the advice my older brother Fawaz gave me. He was six years older than me and much more experienced. He plonked me down in front of the TV a few times to watch porn, and that was how I learned what to do with the female anatomy. We even consider the anus available for s*x, although the Koran explicitly states that all parts of the body must only be used according to their function. Perversion is unacceptable; but then again, who is to decide what is function and what is perversion?

Arabs can find excuses for such things.

I f****d those girls in the ass when I lost my virginity, and I’ve loved anal s*x ever since. I think that’s my only perversion. Of course, sometimes I am a bit too rough, but why should I be ashamed of that? Well, I’m not.

Those two bitches moaned so much under the weight of my fifteen years that I considered myself a s*x god. And why would I have thought otherwise? My father raised me and my brothers to know we could do absolutely anything. And then, at age fifteen, I got just the right feedback.

We park the car in front of the hotel; the valet eagerly runs up to us to get the keys. I let him ease the car in a parking space. He doesn’t often get the chance to sit in such a vehicle. We walk into the lobby and I can feel the curious eyes of women on me. It’s like the animal kingdom. Females don’t hesitate to pick the strongest male and mate with him. America is like the grasslands, full of females wanting to mate.

It makes me sick. And horny!

Amir rouses me from my musings. “Shall we have a coffee in the bar?”

“Wasn’t the one you had bad enough?”

New York is a fine place, but there is nothing better than proper Arabic coffee. A lot of other Arabic things are also unbeatable, but of course the civilized West wouldn’t know about that…

“Think of something to do. It’s still a long time till nine p.m.”

I turn to Amir. He really looks painfully impatient.

No way! Is he really so much into that plain girl?

His huge, sleepy eyes grow wide as he fiddles with his bristly hair. He is only an inch or two shorter than me, but quite heavy-set. He isn’t fat as such, but he moves like an old bear. His steps are slow and long, yet he moves fast, which is somehow odd. His entire appearance is a bit odd. His hands and feet are slender, but his arms and thighs are quite thick and strong. He is not particularly sporty.

Amir looks like his father. I look like my father too, but my father is related to Amir’s mother, so I don’t look like my cousin at all. I take after my father in more than just my appearance… I used to despair of my height and my dark olive skin, but as I got to know the world outside Saudi-Arabia I realized that women find me exotically attractive. I wanted to look different from people back home, but unfortunately I wasn’t a blonde Prince Charming. But I am special in Europe and America. When I was around twenty I realized that you could tell a lot about someone just by looking at them. Even me. Rich or poor, prudish or open-minded… I am rich, not prudish in the least, and I am open to everything… in certain matters.

“Well, you could get ready,” I snap. “Your breath stinks of coffee, and you should give your d**k a good scrub before you stuff it in a woman’s mouth too.”

“Why should I make an effort for her?!”

That’s so typical of Amir. I don’t treat women kindly, but at least I show enough respect to clean myself up for them. A woman’s cleanliness and scent are very important to me and I believe she deserves at least as much in return. I don’t aim to satisfy them, but this is the least I can give. And lots of money, of course. Nothing more though. Cleanliness is very highly valued in our society. There are strict rules regarding personal hygiene, and there is much more to it than a light sprinkle of perfume. I heard people say “filthy Arabs,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Of course there might be Muslim countries where tourists would find “filthy” people, but not in my country. My people are never filthy. At least not as far as the body is concerned. The mind is a different issue, but our personal hygiene is immaculate. The Koran even instructs us on hair- and nail care. An Arabic man mustn’t grow his nails long, his facial hair must be neat, and trimming underarm and pubic hair is highly recommended.

Men like me don’t aim to please the women they use. Of course I’m not saying I have never satisfied a woman, but I don’t care whether I hurt her or please her while I use her. I was gentle with a woman only once. I attended to her every need and we had truly earth-shattering s*x. She loved it. But I don’t want to please paid women; it’s a principle I have. Let the money please them. It’s just business, no more.

Amir doesn’t wait for my reply. He heads to the bar while I walk to the elevator. After a few steps I stop and wait for him to realize I’m not following him. He stops after fifteen meters, turns his huge body and asks me: “What’s up? Aren’t you coming?”

A woman in a red dress saunters past. I stare at her ass. Amir’s face tells me all I need to know about the front view. He grins at her, nods and turns. He is hurrying to the bar now to chat her up. I think he will have a rocking threesome tonight… and I am not even in the mood for my blonde.