From Oman with Love

Quickies, truly they make the world go round. I mean, without quick sexual release, we'd be a crazier world than we already are. Take me for example. You would never guess it to look at me but I basically live for quickies. Who's got time for the lengthy, wild and time-consuming amorous encounters described in trashy romance novels and poorly written erotica? Certainly not I. With my job, my school and my volunteerism, I'm too busy. To quote that annoying lady from those online memes, ain't nobody got time for that!

My name is Zahirah Al-Busaidi and I'm a young Omani woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I'm in my second year in the Police Foundations program at Algonquin College. I was raised in a conservative Muslim household and I wear the hijab everywhere I go. I'm five-foot-six, and weigh one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. I have light bronze skin, light brown eyes and a slightly angular face. You can't see my hair for I never step outside sans hijab but it's long, curly and black. Most people who meet me describe me as soft-spoken, gentle and friendly. If they only knew...I am NOT soft and sweet.

At school, far away from my parents prying eyes, I am free to be me. This year I met a fellow Omani, Salim Mutara. We met at the first meeting of the Muslim Scholars Alliance meeting. Salim is tall, way over six feet, and brawny. He's caramel-colored, with kinky hair and lively golden brown eyes. He's of Swahili and Hindu ancestry. We have a lot of Africans and Hindus in the Sultanate of Oman, along with other races such as the Persians, a fact which surprises a lot of people. They think we're all Arabs. We're not. There's been racial diversity in Muslim countries for many centuries now. It's the supposedly progressive West that has to catch up with us, not the other way around.

Westerners are always lecturing us Muslims about human rights, yet it's their countries that people are being killed for the color of their skin. Among us, you'll see violence based on religious sectarianism and political strife, not useless issues like skin tone. There's supposed to be one global Ummah or Muslim community, according to the Prophet Mohammed himself. That's one of the many reasons why I love my faith. At a time when blacks and Aboriginals in Canada are just starting to get recognized as human beings, we of the Islamic faith have welcomed people of all colors into our religion as brothers and sisters equal in importance before the might of Allah, the one true God.

Sparks flew between Salim and I at our first meeting, or perhaps I was just thrilled to meet someone else from Oman. There are a lot of Arabs in Ottawa but for the most part they're Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians. You don't see a lot of people from the Gulf regions. As a whole, people from places like Oman and Kuwait don't like to emigrate to other countries. We're quite content at home. Well, my parents, Jabril and Rawan Al-Busaidi didn't move us out of our plush villa in Shinas, northern Oman, to frosty Ontario, Canada, by choice.

You see, my family has a lot of enemies. And those enemies had already killed by uncle Amir and my aunt Rania along with my cousin Yassin. My parents weren't taking any chances. They flew us to Canada and made headlines when they immediately asked for political asylum, throwing themselves at the mercy of Citizenship and Immigration Canada. That was in the summer of 2005. Nine years later, I'm twenty one years old and a new citizen of Canada. There are a lot of things I love about being Canadian, and there's a few drawbacks as well.

What am I talking about? Please allow me to elaborate. Not a day goes by that some fool doesn't ask me where I come from. It may sound like an innocent question but it's a loaded one, trust me. Yet I must endure it. Price I pay for being a visible minority in this great nation, I guess. I typically flip them the bird when they ask me, because I know it's their polite way of insulting me about my origins. In Canada, I'll always feel like the cultural other, doubly so because of my skin color and the fact that I wear the hijab. If I were white, nobody would ever ask me where I come from.

In that regard, I'm like every non-white person living in Canada. A lot of immigrants are starting to notice it too, and we're banding together against it. That's why I am so passionate about the Muslim Scholars Alliance. We're a group of Muslim students from various nations, races and sects at school, and we stick together to promote and defend our faith. Salim and I are the most vocal members of the organization. Most of the other members, eleven in number, were born and raised in Canada. They're Muslims living in a secular country. I remember what it was like to live in an Islamic nation, with the bells of the Masjid calling us to prayer five times a day. I remember nationwide feasts of Ramadan being celebrated across the vastness of Oman. I remember my parents giving me Eid money, and sweetmeats, which made me so happy. Yeah, I love my religion.

Even though I'm a citizen of Canada, not a day goes by that I don't feel out of place here. I get hateful stares from random people as I ride the OC Transpo bus from my house in Barrhaven to the Algonquin College campus on Baseline Road. One time I went into a bookstore in Orleans and some plump white gal called me a towel head and told me to go back to my country. I used to confide in my parents but they have their own problems.

My folks have not adapted well to life in Canada. Who can blame them? This place is confusing, a land of contradictions. My father was once an oilman, and he had hundreds of men working for him. Now he's a clerk at a Chapters bookstore. My mother was once an instructor at one of Oman's top universities. Now she's a cashier at Wal-Mart. My parents are depressed, I'm sure of it. Dad works, comes home, watches TV and drinks. On days when she's not working, Mom goes out with her female friends from the local Masjid, and doesn't come back till nightfall. I worry for my parents but what can I do?

The only person I can talk to about is Salim, for he is Omani, as am I. Now that I think about it, Salim and I were drawn to one another from the start. I think that's because we come from similar environments. His family moved to Canada from Oman due to economic hardships. Mine did so for political reasons. Yup, we both left home because things went wrong. Salim's father Salmin Mutara is a Swahili, a sub-Saharan ethnic group that's been in the Sultanate of Oman for centuries.

His mother Adhita Singh-Mutara is a Hindu, part of the growing Hindu population of Oman. Salim told me how his mother's family disowned her for marrying a Muslim man from Africa against their wishes, and later converting to Islam. The Hindu people have a long and complex history of conflict with Islam, that explains why. Even when they live in Muslim countries like Pakistan and Oman, Hindus are fiercely protective of their traditions and their strange, polytheistic religions. It seems that hardship strengthens certain couples while it breaks others. I am amazed every time I visit Salim's house. His parents are so loving with one another, so unlike mine, who barely speak to each other.

I envy Salim and his family, and it's got nothing to do with money or anything. Salim's father runs a dry cleaning and tailoring business at a certain mall in Ottawa. His mother is a chef at a South Asian restaurant downtown. They live in a three-bedroom apartment on Merivale road, not far from the Algonquin College campus. They're not rich people, but they make the best of what they have and that's really something. I wish my parents were like that. Sometimes I've been away from home for days and come back without anyone asking me anything...and this was in high school.

I think my parents are headed for a divorce, they just haven't taken the necessary steps yet. Part of me dreads it, and another part wishes they would get it over with. Our house is full of gloom and despair. I make twelve dollars per hour as a cashier at Loblaw's and I can only work thirty hours a week since I'm in school full-time. Yeah, I can't afford to move out yet. I've looked on Kijiji and even the cheapest places, single rooms put up for rent by homeowners, cost somewhere between four hundred a month and up.

Yeah, in case you haven't figured it out by now, my life is shot to hell. The only person who can take my mind off my problems and make me feel like a human being is Salim. On Tuesdays we go to the movies together, usually at the Blair Cineplex or the Saint Laurent mall movie theater. I used to be a homebody but my depressive house is the last place where I want to be so...I like to spend time outside and Salim knows all the cool ( and affordable ) spots. That's why he's my guy.

Yes, we're dating and it's nobody's damn business. A lot of people think of me as a sexless entity that lacks the basic emotional, sexual and psychological needs common to all womankind. Wear the hijab and people magically forget that you're a human female and think of you as something else altogether. In one gender and sexuality class back in my freshman year, I spoke up and demanded that condoms be made available throughout our college campus. The instructor, an old white lady, was stunned that this comment came from me. Apparently, hijab-wearing Muslim girls aren't supposed to have any interest in sex. Ha!

Trust me, I love sex. I need it, love it, and can't live without it. Just as Salim. I love to exhaust that lad. Earlier, we had one hell of a quickie in the back of the library on Franklin Place. Like a lot of Algonquin students, Salim and I went there to get some studying done since the campus library was packed that day. Midterm season, you know? That's when most students discover the library exists. Well, we didn't get much studying done I tell you.

Salim and I were sitting there, discussing Ontario's crackdown on drunk drivers for our class project when, as he reached for a falling book, his hand accidentally brushed against my bum, and, um...how we went from our table to the washroom with the "closed" sign on it is beyond me. We went inside, and got our freak on. Salim lifted me up and put me on the counter. I unzipped my jacket, and lifted my T-shirt, freeing my boobies. Salim grinned and began sucking on them. At the same time his hand slipped below my navel and into my skirt.

I grinned as Salim's hand grabbed my crotch forcefully, just the way I like it. Don't ask me why but I like having my crotch grabbed. Maybe I've seen too many rap videos, or maybe I'm weirdly kinky. Whatever. Salim's fingers slid under my panties and into my cunt, right into my sweet, and decidedly wet spot. You want this bad, Salim whispered into my ear. I nodded breathlessly, and urged him to continue. As Salim pulled down my skirt and brought his face to my pussy, I licked my lips with anticipation. My man's tongue game is one of the best.

Gently, Salim began licking my pussy, teasing my cunt by working his fingers inside of me. For about five minutes he licked and probed me, sending little waves of pleasure cascading throughout my body. Show me your dick, I said. Salim grinned, and unzipped his pants, showing me what he was working with. As was his custom, Salim wasn't wearing any underwear. I grasped his long and thick dick with both hands. Salim closed his eyes as I pumped my hand up and down his erect member.

Sliding off the bathroom counter, I knelt before Salim. Inhaling his manly musk, I grasped his balls in my hands as I first kissed his dick, then took it into my mouth. Salim groaned softly as I began sucking him off. I loved the taste and feel of his manhood in my mouth. Once I had Salim nice and hard, I told him I wanted him inside of me. Salim's ruggedly handsome visage went blank. I don't have condoms on me, he said sheepishly. When those words left his lips I felt like smacking him. I'm on the pill, I added at last.

Yup, I've been on the pill for three months now. The side effects are nasty but the benefits are many. Still, I must say I was nervous. This was our first time going bareback, Salim and I. I climb back on the bathroom counter and spread my legs invitingly, loving the sparkle in Salim's lusty eyes as he steps closer. Watching as Salim rubbed his dick against my pussy, I bit my lip as he pushed it inside. A sharp pain, followed by a tingle and a feeling of fullness as Salim begins fucking me.

In hindsight, there are more comfortable places for a quickie than a library bathroom counter, but beggars and opportunistic fuckers can't be choosers. We start really going at it, and I sort of lose myself in the moment, moaning loudly. Salim's big hand clamps on my mouth. His eyes bore into mine and he shook his head. Can't get too loud Zee, he warns. I nod, and he takes his hand off my mouth. Too bad, I kind of liked having it there. I kind of like being 'forced' during sex but Salim isn't comfortable with it so I don't bring it up too often.

We were fucking away happily for a good half an hour before some commotion outside got our attention. I can hear people rushing. Panic strikes, and I tell Salim to pull out. He does, and I hurriedly readjust my clothes. Two minutes later, we exit the library washroom. Um, where is everyone? A little while later we find out from the security guard, a tall white lady with short dark hair, that everyone's gone outside due to the fire alarm. Hands on her hips, she glares at Salim and I, and asks us where we were. Fell asleep in the back, Salim quips guiltily. I smile and nod, and we exit the building as the security lady stares at us, shaking her head.

We make our way out the library parking lot, then head toward Baseline Station. Hand in hand Salim and I make our way back to the Algonquin College campus. The next time we return to the library we'll hear about the security guard slipping on a slippery substance and falling in the washroom when she went to inspect it during the fire drill. The little old lady at the front desk couldn't figure out why Salim and I had such a case of giggles. This broad probably figured we were just mean brats. Trust me, we're not. It's just that I know exactly what slippery substance the guard stepped on when she went nosing around where she didn't belong. Kind of funny, don't you think?