From Morocco With Love

As soon as Rama was gone, I went to the stairwells, took out my Blackberry and called Timothy. Dude I ran into her at school, I whispered loudly into the phone. My brother I'm in class, Timothy snapped, then hung up. I stared at the phone, stunned. It's like that? Alright, then. I returned to my seat, and resumed my work. I sat there from eleven o'clock in the morning until around three that afternoon. I got six pages done, not counting the cover page. Yeah, I'm definitely going to need Rama's help with that stuff. I tried calling Dalton, but he text me that he was chilling with Miranda. Apparently, the Goth chick from that club we got tossed out of is totally into him. Good for you Timmy, I texted him, then went back to my apartment.

That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about the events of recent times. I'm nineteen years old, my parents are divorced, I finally escaped from the boring, racist town I grew up in but I'm not faring much better in the more diverse big city. I keep getting into these incidents, and it won't be long until something serious happens. I came to Ottawa to start a new life, get a university degree, find a job and eventually, find the right lady. Or a lady. The sole sexual experience of my existence happened in the basement of one Natasha Granger, two weeks after my high school graduation.

Natasha and I had an interesting history. Her father, Steve Granger, is a Constable with the Kingston Police Service. A stocky, red-haired, fiery-eyed, ill-tempered redneck. Dude's originally from Red Deer, Alberta, but he moved to Ontario a a little over a decade ago. Natasha's dad is the perfect example of the stereotype of the redneck lawman, gun-toting, and not very well-disposed towards citizens of color. Since I'm a mixed guy born and raised in Kingston, one of the whitest municipalities in all of Canada, I often felt that the good ole constable had a gruff disapproval of my very existence.

Natasha Granger was a rebel, and what a fine rebel she was. Born in Alberta, she kept her accent even after living in Ontario for most of her life. Made her exotic to me, that redneck accent. Tall and curvy, with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes. The gal had a cute face, curvy body, naturally large breasts, legs that won't quit and the kind of big, round derriere that I hadn't seen on a white female since the lady Coco, rapper/actor Ice-T's wife. We got involved during my senior year of high school, and kept it hush for obvious reasons.

Ladies and gentlemen, I banged the redneck cop's daughter in her father's basement. Right there on a mattress, near his empty beer kegs and old American Rifleman magazines. Natasha and I fucked like rabbits that summer. It wasn't just sex, either, at least not to me. I told her I was leaving town, forever, and invited her to come with me. Natasha had no plans for college or university. Indeed, she still works at Cecil's Diner, a quaint little place in downtown Kingston. If I pass through town at some point in the next twenty years, she'll probably still be there. That's just the kind of person she is. Small town gal with small dreams. A shame, though.

Odd that I'm lying in bed thinking about folks I knew back in Kingston, though. I used to look forward to the summer, for my parents would send me to stay in Montreal, Quebec, with my aunt Jacqueline, her husband George and their daughters, my cousins Mira and Nadine. I'm part Haitian on my mom's side and I absolutely love that culture. I learned to speak Creole during those summer months in Montreal. If I have any appreciation for black culture, it's because of my aunt Jacqueline, my mother's older sister. She's a strong black woman through and true. Taught me about Haitian history and the shared experiences of black folks worldwide. I learned a lot from her. It wasn't cool to talk about race in the household where I grew up.

As a Portuguese-Canadian immigrant, my father is considered white by the good folks of Kingston but my Haitian mother and my mixed self will always be considered the cultural other. Dad tried his best to shield us from the worst of what Kingston town folks threw at us but he couldn't be everywhere. That's why I always prayed for summer. In Montreal, with my black relatives, I felt happy. I belonged. I always cried when it was time to return to Kingston, the dreadful little town where I got teased because of my skin color. And yet I had taken to bed the daughter of the most bigoted son of a bitch in town. Maybe I do like to play with fire.

I thought of Rama Abdel-Masih. This Moroccan gal fascinates me, and not just because she's real pretty, with a fine body and mesmerizing ass. As much as I fancy myself a knowledgeable and open-minded sort, I'm still a small-town hick. I'm half black and half white, and I've never been outside Canada. I only know four cities, Kingston and Ottawa in Ontario, along with Montreal and Gatineau in Quebec. Rama had already seen the world outside Canada. Hell, she was born and raised in Morocco. I could only imagine the things she'd seen. All I know about Arab/Muslim countries is what I see on CNN.

I desperately wanted to feel and experience more, but had no idea what I truly sought or how to get it. I felt lonely in Ottawa, in spite of hanging constantly with Dalton and Timothy. I talked to my Dad twice a week, and he told me he was loving it in Alberta. He was dating a Native woman he met in Calgary, an Ojibwe woman named Christine Sooleawa. Damn, I guess my father really likes minority women, eh? I talked to my mom and from what I hear, she loves it in Montreal. I've been meaning to visit her. I love Montreal and hope to move there someday, maybe after I graduate from Carleton. I'm fully bilingual, having learned Parisian French from my Haitian immigrant mother. I ought to do fine in la belle province. On that note, I fell asleep, dreaming big, like I always do.

The next day, I went to school and checked my messages. I had three from Rama and she was inviting me to Moroccan Cultural Night, an event being held somewhere on campus. I cannot remember the last time anyone invited me anywhere. Hell, I didn't even go to my senior prom. Natasha Granger was fine with sleeping with me when no one was looking but she wouldn't publicly date a gentleman of color like myself. You might see a lot of interracial couples in places like Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Vancouver but in Kingston, Ontario, it's just not done. It's the reason why my white father and black mother were so hated. I can only imagine at what those hicks would say or worse, do, if they saw a white gal with a black guy. Small town Canada is a different world, ladies and gentlemen.

I showed up at the event wearing a blue silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. My Sunday best, if you will. I thought I'd be the only non-Arab at the party but it turned out to be quite diverse. Thank you for coming brother, Rama said, greeting me at the door. I smiled and nodded, then gave her a quick once-over. Rama looked gorgeous in a long red dress that seemed to hug her curves, and she had on a shiny white hijab. You look lovely, I said. Rama smiled and nodded graciously, then ushered me inside.

Man, the place was packed. I saw a lot of young people, mostly Arabs or Middle-Easterners, with a few black guys and black gals and some Asians here and there. Rama went around introducing me to her pals. This is the man who rescue me from that creep I told you about, Rama said, as she walked me over to a tall bearded young Arab dude who looked like the head honcho. As Salam Alaikum brother, the guy said, and introduced himself as Ibrahim. I shook his big hand and introduced myself. Later I learned he was the President of the Islamic Students Association. Cool, I'd never met a president before.

After a few more meet-and-greets Rama sat me down at a table with four guys and one white chick, and then excused herself. I'm performing tonight, she giggled excitedly, then walked away. I watched as the proceedings began. Ibrahim took the floor, and thanked everyone for coming. I looked around, and was quite taken with the place. They'd artfully decorated a vast lecture hall and set a stage, complete with Arabic-looking imagery on the walls, and fancy decorations. I saw four tables packed with food and drinks, and smiled. These people sure know how to entertain...

The whole presentation looked like something out of The Thousand And One Nights, a book my father once read to me. I smiled and watched as one performance followed the other. Dances, singing, even an arm-wrestling contest, which surprised me. And then finally Rama took the stage. I watched as she took the mike, greeted everyone, thanked them for coming, and then began singing in both French and Arabic. It was a long, slow and very sensuous song. One that aroused me and had me on my feet, clapping with the best of them, even though I didn't understand half of what she said. The lady's voice is strong and sexy, and carries over, vibrating around the room and penetrating you in ways you don't expect. Rama totally owned the stage, and got a standing ovation.

A few minutes later, Rama came back to our table. You were amazing, I said, like the eager beaver I am. Rama smiled bashfully. Thank you brother, she said. I looked at her, amazed. I mean, I knew she was smart and sexy, but I didn't know she could sing like Beyonce! Alright, maybe not like Beyonce, but maybe like Celine Dion. Anyhow, I was sitting next to her, and she looked seriously hot in that ankle-length yet tight red dress, and her curves were showing, and her perfume smelled wonderful, and, um, yeah. And once again, I'm tongue-tied.

Awesome performance, I said again, looking at Rama. Just in case she didn't hear me the first time, and also because I wasn't sure what to say. A bright idea crept into my skull, and I smiled wickedly. The one thing no Muslim can resist is talking about their great religion. I smiled and watched the performances with Rama, and dropped a few hints her way. I surreptitiously let her know that I wanted to know more about Islam, and the Moroccan people. The end result? A smiling Rama handed me two things, her digits and a copy of the Koran. I smiled graciously and accepted both. Whatever it takes to get at the lovely and delicious Rama Abdel-Masih, man. Seriously.

And that's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. I thought I was so clever, pretending to be interested in Rama's culture and religion just because I wanted a piece of her delicious Moroccan derriere. Little did I know that the lady had major plans for me. At first, she slowly drew me out. I began attending Koran discussion groups on campus, and I learned about the Prophet Mohammed, his life-changing encounter with the Archangel Gabriel, and the birth of Islam. The more interested I became in Islam, the closer Rama and I grew.

We talked on the phone a lot, and hung out together on campus. We went to the movies together, and the Cineplex at Silver City in Ottawa's east end became our favorite spot. We were both new to Ottawa in a way and we delighted in exploring it together. We went to museums and restaurants, malls and theaters. One frosty night in December, I took her to the National Arts Center and we watched the annual Shen Yun Performing Arts show. I looked alright in a sharp black suit and Rama looked amazing in a long dark crimson evening gown, her curly black hair hidden by a dark head wrap, not the hijab, but another type I hadn't seen her wear before. Whatever, she looked lovely.

You look divine, I told her, as we walked in, the only couple our age among the tons of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen from Ottawa's finest citizenry. You know how to make a lady blush, Rama whispered into my ear. I smiled at that. What can I say? I like Rama, I enjoy her company, and I can honestly say that my life hasn't been the same since she came into it. I still hang out with Timothy and Dalton. We're Los Tres Diablos. The Three Devils. We're boys until we die. Nothing can change that. I let them know that. Dude you're whipped, Timothy chided me one night, as we ate some Chinese food inside Saint Laurent Mall's food court. Rama owns your ass, Dalton chimed in. Haters, I laughed and brushed off their comments.

Seriously, Timothy and Dalton could bug me all they want, I refused to let it get to me. Besides, Timothy is fawning over a blonde-haired white chick named Mildred, and they've been together for two months. Dalton and Miranda have recently moved in together. And these are the guys accusing my ass of being whipped. Ha! Rama showed me a different world. I thought all Muslims were ultra-conservative, uptight and boring. I thought of Muslim men as domineering brutes and viewed Muslim women as submissive and dull. That's the popular description of them, isn't it?

Well, whoever says that Muslim women are submissive or weak hasn't met Rama Abdel-Masih of Sale, Morocco. The tall, curvy Moroccan sister is gorgeous, fun, smart, quirky and absolutely fearless. I introduced her to one of my favorite sports, Paintball, and she took to it like a cat takes to hunting mice. Typically, on Sunday afternoons, Timothy, Dalton and I play Paintball together. Well, that weekend I brought Rama with me. As we played together at a spot called Tag Zone in the east end, the mischievous witch shot me in the ass with a paintball gun. Left a red mark on my left butt cheek for three days. Watch your back, Rama teased, after shooting my posterior, as I lay there, moaning in pain. Timothy and Dalton stood there, laughing their sick heads off.

In retaliation I shot Rama in the face but the blast bounced harmlessly off her visor. Close but no cigar, Rama teased, and blasted me twice more for good measure. I hate you, I managed to squeak out as Timothy gave me a hand up. Dude she got you good, Dalton teased, shaking his head. I glared at him, shaking my head. My ass still stung. Fuck you, I said, and shoved him away. Man, my ass hurts and I'm walking funny. I look like I just got butt-fucked in a Mexican jail. Dammit.

Rama looked at me, and an odd look crept into her pretty face. Sorry I hurt you Al, she said, and smiled guiltily. Then she kissed me. Yup, clad in a T-shirt, sweatpants and a visor, my gorgeous, exotic, not-quite-girlfriend hugged me and kissed me on the lips. Feel better? Rama said, looking all concerned and shit while she patted my bum. I perked right up when she did that. Suddenly filled with inspiration, I pulled Rama into my arms and kissed her. I feel better already, I grinned, winking at her. Standing behind Rama, Dalton and Timothy gave me the thumbs-up sign. Yup, things are definitely looking up.

Yeah, things were progressively between Rama and I. Happy to say that not only did I complete the sociology project but I got a ninety one out of a hundred on it. To celebrate, I took Rama to East Side Mario's restaurant in the east end. We ate some delicious lasagnas, sandwiches and washed them down with Pepsis. Couldn't have done it without you, I told Rama. Gently, I squeezed her hand. Thank you Al, she smiled. I looked at her, this lovely young Moroccan woman I met under such odd circumstances. And I thanked my lucky stars for her.

Rama looked at me. Do you believe in fate? she asked me suddenly, a strange look in her lovely golden brown eyes. I smiled and nodded. Indeed I believed in fate, how else could you explain how two people as different as her and I, in a promising new relationship? Rama smiled at me, and told me that she always knew that she'd travel far from home and in her time of need the Creator would send an angel to save her. A beautiful belief, I said, not knowing what to say. Rama laughed. You're the angel sent to save me, she smiled, entwining her hand with mine.

I looked at our entwined fingers, and smiled at her. Like a smooth operator, I took Rama's hand and brought it to my lips. I smiled at Rama, and noticed she didn't return my smile. I am serious, Rama said. I kept smiling, but honestly, I was beginning to get thoroughly creeped out. I mean, what was Rama getting at with all this angel talk? I think fate meant for us to be together, Rama said, suddenly she was much closer to me. In fact, our faces were soon inches apart. Go on, I said, hapless before the hypnotic pull of those eyes of hers.

Rama kissed me full and deep. I want you to convert to Islam then we can be together, she whispered into my ear. I looked at her then, and although a part of me felt like protesting, I didn't say anything. My heart raced. I had agreed to learn about Islam and Moroccan culture just to get with Rama, but now, I was starting to fall for her. Also, I had learned a lot about the Muslims and most of them were decent people. I definitely respect their faith, and find much of it beautiful and intriguing. Still, was I ready for conversion?

Rama looked at me with those angelic eyes of hers, and smiled. Then she kissed me. We left the restaurant together, and went back to my place. Once we got there, we didn't do a lot of talking, let tell you. Rama and I sat on my living room couch, gently kissing and fondling each other. Are you ready for me? I asked, my eyes locked with hers. Rama smiled faintly. I've wanted you for a long time Al, she confessed, blushing slightly.

I looked at Rama, and my heart melted at the sight of her, my gorgeous Moroccan goddess, clad in a long-sleeved azure T-shirt, ankle-length blue skirt and sky-blue hijab, gazing longingly into my eyes. I decided to worship her like the goddess she is. Gently I kissed her, then asked her to disrobe. Hesitantly, Rama took off her T-shirt. I watched as she unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts. They were big and round, ripe-looking, just like I envisioned them. Gently I cupped them, and brought my lips to her areolas. That tickles, Rama laughed, as I began sucking on her tits.

I licked a path from Rama's breasts to her round belly, which she seemed a bit self-conscious about. You're beautiful to me my sister, I said, and made my way to her pelvic area. Grinning Rama hiked up her skirt. I found myself staring at a chunky pussy practically puffing out of her lily-white panties. Slowly I pulled them off her, and stared at her hairy cunt. Go for it, Rama whispered, as if I needed any encouragement. I knelt before her and brought my face to Rama's pussy as she spread her big, sexy legs wide open.

I inhaled the hot, womanly scent of Rama's cunt, then proceeded to lick her. For once I was thankful for the things my former classmate/fuck buddy Natasha Granger taught me a long time ago in Kingston. I knew how to sexually excite a female. Working two fingers into Rama's wet pussy, I teased her clit with my tongue, causing her to shudder and moan. The lady hadn't felt anything yet. You're in my spot, Rama moaned softly, as I continued working my magic on her. I delighted in tasting Rama's womanhood on my tongue, as I explored her most forbidden, intimate regions with my mouth and fingers.

I buried my face between Rama's thighs, munching on her pussy hungrily, like a damn pig at the trough, for lack of a better term. I hadn't gotten this close to a woman in over a year, and I definitely wanted to make up for lost time. I licked, probed, sucked and fingered Rama's cunt until I had her crying out my name in every language she knew, including Arabic, French and profane. When all was said and done, Rama lay on the couch, disheveled, her curvaceous, lovely body covered with sweat, a stunned look in her golden brown eyes. I got it like that mamas, I said with admirable false modesty.

Rama looked at me and licked her lips. You're something else, she laughed. I took her hands, kissed them and then placed them on my erect manhood. Rama looked at her hands, then at me. I smiled at her and nodded gently. You know what to do, I whispered into her ear. Rejoining her on the couch, I leaned back and pulled off my pants, followed by my black and white Carleton Throwback T-shirt. Rama laughed and slapped my thighs for not wearing underwear. I shrugged. I only wear underwear when I'm going to the pool or on super-frosty days. Otherwise what's the point? I like to let it all hang out.