Muno and Ali in Kanata

Amateur

When you think of a Somali Muslim woman, what is the first image that comes to mind? A Hijab-wearing, smiling gal from Africa, proud of her cultural heritage and Islamic faith. That’s fine, because that’s definitely part of who I am. Still, what happens when the Somali Muslim woman in question dares to question certain societal expectations and forge her own path?

My name is Muno Ali, and I got a story to share with you. I live in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, and have lived there for two decades. I barely remember Puntland, the area of Somalia where I was born. As far as I am concerned, Canada is my home. As I type these words, I’m at work, at a call center in the Kanata area, wearing an Ottawa Senators tuque instead of a Hijab. Canadian enough for you?

“Muno, what are you up to?” came a male voice, and I looked up from my cubicle, and frowned. Before me stood Alistair “Ali” Kingsley, a certain handsome but annoying Jamaican brother who unfortunately thinks he’s all that. When I first met Ali, I thought he was a Muslim on account of his name. No such luck, he’s a Christian, and overly talkative. The brother doesn’t merely sprinkle cologne on himself, he bathes in it.

“Working, of course, Ali, what about you?” I reply, flashing him a smile that’s about as fake as the nails a certain Asian nail care lady put on me at Walmart a few days ago. Ali doesn’t seem to get that his presence is unwelcome, and stops by to chit chat. We’re the only two people working in the building because the overnight division is not busy. Aside from the cleaners who’ve long since departed, Ali and I are alone all night.

“Ah, you know, my sister, brother-man feels bored,” Ali replies, stroking his goateed chin, and smirking. I smile and shake my head. Ali props his behind against my desk, and I tut-tut him, prompting him to step back abruptly. He is annoyed by this, and I shrug, for I find his habit of coming too close more than a little annoying.

“Well, in that case, brother-man, I would suggest manning the phones,” I reply pleasantly, as though Ali and I are discussing the weather or some mundane shit like that. As usual, Ali is overdressed in my sincere opinion. He’s wearing a red silk shirt, black dress pants, and his trademark black Timberland boots. Once upon a time, after leaving the island of Jamaica, Ali stayed in the City of Detroit, USA. He’s still got some very American habits. Hmm, those are some bad habits if you ask me.

“Muno, my sweet Somali flower, why do you have to be so mean to a brother?” Ali asks, with a small pleading gesture. He’s smiling faintly, but I can tell that I’m getting to him. Ali is handsome, and chatty, and although he lacks motivation, he is smart and has great potential. I can’t decide if I want to mold him into something better or crush his spirit. Hmm, any reason I can’t do both?

“Hmm, Ali, because I know you like it like that,” I reply, and Ali sniffs, looking suitably chastised. Why is he behaving this way, you may ask? Well, about a month ago, Ali and I were working at the call center, on overnights as usual, when I noticed that he wasn’t at his usual spot. I went by the cafeteria and found him sitting at a table, with his laptop.

Ali was so engrossed in whatever he was watching on his laptop that he didn’t hear me coming. I’m blessed with curvaceous good looks, a wonderful figure and a pretty face, but I’m kind of lacking in the height department. Alright, I’m five-foot-five, sheesh. I wear platform sandals that click clack all over the tiled atakent escort floor of the call center, so I make about as much noise as a small army when I’m walking around. Still, somehow, Ali didn’t hear me.

“Gotcha,” I said to Ali, peering over his shoulder, and I gasped. I intended to surprise Ali, but I’m the one who got surprised. Ali was watching porn, but not just any porn. In the porn video Ali was watching, there were three people getting busy, a tall, athletic young black man, along with a guy who looked Latino, and the obligatory busty, blonde-haired and blue-eyed porno chick. They were doing something really unconventional, if you catch my drift.

“Oh shit, Muno, this is not what it looks like,” a panicked Ali said to me. I shook my head as I gazed at the screen. In his haste to close the page, Ali somehow froze it, and it amused me to watch him try to click out of it. The page was frozen on an image I would never forget, a well-endowed young black man getting his dick sucked by a white woman and a Latino guy. Ali was watching a bisexual porn video. Actually, make that an interracial bisexual porn video.

“Ali, you’re a switch-hitter,” I remarked, and it wasn’t a question. Ali looked at me sheepishly, and then nodded, looking ashamed. I smiled and patted his shoulder, then reminded him that we were at work. I walked away, and Ali actually followed me to my seat. I had to promise the panicked bozo that I would keep my mouth shut before he would leave me alone. Men and their secrets, I swear.

“If people found out, I’d be a dead man, you can’t be a Jamaican man and identify as bisexual or gay or anything like that,” Ali said, looking scared, and I promised him that his secret was safe with me. I went back to work, answering the calls of credit card abusing creeps from all over Canada and beyond. Just another worknight for this gal, seriously.

Even as I continued to work, I kept thinking about Ali, puzzled in spite of myself. Now, a lot of Somalis, male and female, are quite opposed to gayness, lesbianism and bisexuality, due to the influence of Islam. They consider same-sex relationships as haram or forbidden and dirty. You’re not going to change most Africans minds about such things, so don’t waste your breath.

Me? I am a Somali Muslim woman, that’s true, and while my community is conservative, I have a mind of my own. Also, I grew up in the City of Ottawa. I had plenty of gay and lesbian friends throughout my school years. Hell, while I was in residence at Algonquin College, I had a lesbian roommate named Heidi. She was a sweet gal from Alberta who had the best weed and often loaned me some quick cash. We got along just fine.

“Girl get a grip,” I told myself, snapping out of this little trip down memory lane. Ali’s little impromptu revelation about his bisexuality happened ages ago. I blinked away those thoughts, and frowned at the brother standing before me. Ali looked at me as if I were weird or something. I shooed him away, and resumed working.

“Muno, the sweet Somali flower with the thorns,” Ali said, as he walked away, shaking his head. Nice ass on this brother, I thought with a smile as Ali bent down to tie his shoe laces. What? I’m not supposed to do that? As a black woman whom mother nature blessed with a nice derriere, I am used to men and others checking out my firm backside. The least I could do is pay men the same respect…or lack thereof.

“Hey, Captain Jamaica, nice ataköy escort pants,” I hollered, and Ali turned around and gave me a confused look before smiling hesitantly. I waved him off, and continued working. My next caller, a certain Mr. Thompson, resident of Boise, Idado, proved to be one tough customer. He owed fifteen hundred dollars on his Mastercard, and through an agreement with our account management division, he was supposed to pay us a hundred dollars every two weeks until his debt was settled. The bozo reneged on the agreement, then had the nerve to shout at me over the phone…

“You people are vultures,” Mr. Thompson shouted, sounding very much like every stereotype of a redneck, backwards racist bozo you could think of. Of course I put him on hold, and of course I didn’t pick up. I waited fifteen minutes until the bozo lost patience and hung up, then I smiled to myself, satisfied with what I’ve done. In life, it’s the little things that make one’s day. I am that gal on the phone who passive aggressively gets back at the phone thugs, those people who sound tough over the phone but are cowards in real life. I love messing with them.

“Muno, you’re smiling, what did you do and who did you do it to?” Ali asked me, a few minutes later, as I ran into him in the hallway while coming back from the ladies washroom. I smiled at Ali, and happily shared the news with him. I love messing with people like Mr. Thompson and ruining their day while making money for the crecit card company. What can I say? It’s what makes me happy!

“Well, Ali, you better grab a seat for this one,” I told him, and Ali smiled and sat down as I shared my tale of trickery and deceit. I left out the part where I sent Mr. Thompson’s account to the collections division. Now his credit score is ruined, and he will be getting some harassing phone calls from various collections agencies. All because the bozo had the temerity to get tough with me on the phone. If he was nice, I might have credited him some money and helped him out, but he had to get mean with me. Always a bad idea if you ask me. Well, fellas, us ladies are meaner than you. Get used to it.

“Hmm, Muno, you’re so mean and sexy,” Ali said, looking me up and down, and I smiled. I looked at him, and when his eyes met mine, I felt a tingle down below. I honestly don’t remember how I came to be sitting on Ali’s lap, but there I was. A prim and proper Somali Muslim woman in a traditional dress and Sens tuque sitting on a Jamaican dude’s lap…at the frigging office.

“I can get a lot meaner if you like,” I said, grabbing Ali’s face in my hands, and the brother smiled, then he kissed me. I kissed Ali back, and we started making out. The dude wanted to take me right there on his desk, but I had the presence of mind to insist we do this in the washroom. There’s nobody else in the building but you never know. A while back, the call center had a 24/7 security team. They’re gone now, but the cameras are probably still there…

“Damn you’re hot,” Ali said as he propped me up on the washroom counter, with my back to the mirror. I looked at him, this tall, dark-skinned, burly man from the Caribbean and smiled. Ali kissed me and caressed my breasts through my shirt, then slid his hand under my skirt. I held my breath as he slid down my panties, and hiked up my skirt for him. Nodding at me, Ali knelt before me, and spread my thick thighs. I exhaled sharply upon realizing what he was going to do…

“Go atalar escort for it,” I told Ali, and the brother smiled, then kissed my sex. I sighed happily as I felt Ali’s tongue against my clitoris, and the brother didn’t stop there. Soon I felt his fingers invading my already wet pussy. I closed my eyes, relaxed and enjoyed as Ali began pleasuring me. I hadn’t been pleasured like this in a long time, and the brother definitely helped me make up for lost time. Ali’s tongue and fingers wrought a shuddering orgasm out of me, and I squealed his name with all of my might.

“I knew you were good for something,” I told Ali, after he finished pleasuring me. Ali looked at me and smiled. I asked him if he had a condom, and he shook his head. I looked at him, smiled and shrugged. I don’t do the whole sex without a condom thing. There’s a lot of diseases out there, and a woman ought to be careful. You never know all the places a person has been, or everyone they’ve been with.

“Another time, sweetie,” Ali replied, smiling, and I returned his smile. Dream on, I thought, and I washed my face, and headed into the stall. I wiped my vagina with a piece of paper, and then came out, washed my hands, and exited the washroom. By then, Ali was long gone. I returned to my cubicle, and resumed taking calls. It was three o’clock in the morning, and as part of the midnight to eight crew, Ali and I still had a lot of work left.

When morning came, and the day crew arrived, I greeted them happily, clocked out and left. I got into my car, and pulled out of the parking lot. I saw Ali waiting for the bus, and felt a pang in my chest. It was a cold morning in late October, and I knew the bus wouldn’t come for another twenty minutes. Ali lacked the good sense to go into the nearby Tim Horton’s to warm up. I pity this fool, I thought, annoyed and irate at the same time.

“Alistair Kingsley, get your ass in here,” I shouted at him as I pulled up in front of the bus stop. If there was a cop around, I’d get a ticket for sure because it’s a busy intersection. Ali hesitated, then got in. He smiled at me, and I shook my head, then returned his smile. Ali thanked me and chatted incessantly. I knew he lived near Accora Village, right next to the Bayshore Mall. I dropped him there, and then got ready to pull away…

“Thank you my fine sister, tonight, I’ll come prepared for work and everything else,” Ali said, smiling, and I scoffed, rolled my eyes and drove away. I got home a few minutes later, since I live close to Pinecrest Station. I entered my apartment, took off my clothes and shoes, left my frigging panties and socks on the carpet, and jumped onto my inflatable bed. Yes, I can afford a nice, real bed on my salary but inflatable beds have been a staple of my life since my college days. They offer no place for bed bugs to hide. Sorry, bad experience from my college days. I don’t trust “real” beds.

“Ali, my handsome fool,” I said to myself as I lay in bed, under the covers. I have a space heater in my bedroom, and turned up the heat. As I lay naked in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Absentmindedly I began rubbing my erect nipples, before my hands found their way to my clit, which I started rubbing as well. Like many overnight workers, I had trouble falling asleep once I got to bed…

I thought about the night I had at work, about that asshole Thompson, and about Ali, of course. Ali may be a switch-hitter but he made me cum. I’ve been with a few presumably hetero guys in this lifetime who didn’t know Jack about bringing a woman pleasure. Got to give Ali some credit. I don’t care if he swings both ways, I want to feel his tongue on my clitoris again. Hmm, I wonder if he’s packing down below. Hope to find out soon enough. I masturbated to a guilty pleasure and came hard, twice. Finally, I allowed myself to fall asleep, hungry for the night to come…

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