A Revelation, Surreal but Divine

“Hello, Roxy. I’m out shopping for bargains; never expected to bump into you … like … THIS.”

My voice betrayed surprise and no little discomposure at her sudden manifestation as a blackout Muslim. I was exploring Angeles City’s central St Nicholas’ Market (The Philippines). Many Muslim women, in traditional black headscarves and abayas down to their ankles, operate stalls. Ahead of me, among the milling throng, I noticed a knot of Muslim women. One had looked toward me and waved.

Who me?

Curious.

I approached and she greeted me by name. First, I recognised her voice, then her unmade-up face. I knew her ‘intimately’.

Her face and voice bespoke fond affection. “It’s my day off; I’m helping Mum” - she indicated a middle-aged lady – “ on our family stall.”

Taking me by the arm, she introduced me to Mum and talked effusively in dialect. Mother looked from her to me and beamed, I reciprocated. Was I getting a fulsome character reference? Really? I knew nothing between ‘us’ to please ‘Mum’, indeed anything to make any mother smile.

Roxy worked in an infamous touchy-feely bar, as a nude 'showgirl’. I’d bar-fined her several times. Together, we’d created a favourite spectacle. I’d sit on a high stool, she’d sit on the bar counter, remove her thong and spread. I’d sloppily eat her pussy as she faked pleasure, then arousal, then progressive loss of control 'til she convulsed in a wrestlers'-bridge orgasm.

The first time was after Mamasan, to mollify a customer who’d criticised her grooming, had her sit onstage on a chair, and shave her pussy. She raised her knees and spread to display her mirror-finish, plucked and moisturised pudenda. I’d made the tongue-in-pussy sign. She immediately slipped down onto the counter, repeated the pose and beckoned. The atmosphere was louche, I had a glow on, why not?

It went down famously with the girls, punters, Papa and Mamasan. Roxy liked my style and I’d bar-fined her. It became our ‘thing’ whenever I went to her bar.

When we bar-hopped, Roxy was an attention-whore and I, an envy-magnet. Her enthusiastic indulgence of my boudoir peccadilloes flattered me - but I’m easily pleased. Her USP was compulsive exhibitionism, on stage and in the bedroom.

She’d solicit to pose for my camera - "ANYTHING you want." When I'd exhausted the tyro pervert’s list, my imagination failed. She volunteered poses her more debauched clients conceived. Some appalled me, but, she monitored my reaction and got high on my shock. An addicted prick-tease, I realised. I humoured her. Her quasi-masturbatory arousal triggered an authentic orgasm and I was able to document, photographically, the perversity of deeply disturbed minds. Win/Win. She was the dirty diva of my memorabilia.

I tipped big, she was more than money's worth.

“ Mum says, because you’re a generous guy, if you'd like, you can take me. Only give her my tip.”
What to do? I pictured myself, a monger, promenading around town with a Muslim girl in full blackout on my arm. I’m not sure all dress-up Muslims or their men folk would be as indulgent as her mother.

I made my excuses, “If I’d known - but I’m fixed up, I’m meeting a lady friend later.”

“ Owww … well, come in and see me soon.”

“I will.”

A flurry of nods and disappointed smiles between her, her mother and I followed, as I eased away.

But, under all that black, she may have been dressed differently. She might have popped inside the stall and transformed back into the skank, licensed to ‘entertain’ mongers, who’d have attracted glances, of lust to her, and envy to me.

I’d not realised Roxy favoured me. I bar-fined her some more. Her family, like many local Muslims, were from the Bangsomoro in Mindanao and had fled to avoid violence and destitution. They identified as Muslim, but less strongly with strict Islam. She drank no alcohol and ate no pork but she’d guzzle cum and swallow pork-sword. Like the devout Christian girls responding to moralistic rebuke, she’d indignantly declare, “I’m allowed, I support my family,” and flash her photo ID – TRICK N'TREAT, ‘Licensed Entertainer/Dancer’.

Officially, and by naive virtue, licensed to thrill.

I picture her now, arriving home after prayers. The door closes, her husband slaps her arse, “Now slip out of your abaya and show me what new wickedness you’ll shock me with tonight.”

Mum knew what made a home, 'happy'; the girls, the guys, beneath the surface were all the same.