Maimuna, The Somali Feminist

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Sexual liberation of the modern Muslim woman, that’s a controversial topic in both feminist and Muslim circles. Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, I would know. My name is Maimuna Hamid, and I’m a writer, artist, divorcee, and proud Somali-Canadian woman living in the City of Montreal, Quebec. I’ve lived in Quebec all my life. It is my home, and I’ll happily slap any fool who says otherwise.

My father, Ismail Hamid is originally from Lebanon, and my mother Amina Kader was born in Somalia and moved to Canada a long time ago. I guess that makes me technically biracial, but I identify as Somali. A lot of people think of Islam as a patriarchal religion, and that’s simply not true. Culture is a factor which cannot and should not be ignored. Somali culture is and has always been matriarchal, in spite of the influence of Islam. I identify as Somali because I was born of a Somali woman, that’s all.

Forty, the age which I’m fast approaching, fills me with dread. Lord, how I hate that number. For a man, forty signifies that although he’s past his youth, he’s still in his prime. Think of actor Pierce Brosnan during his James Bond days, for example. The man looked virile and strong, and he kicked a lot of ass onscreen. Forty for a woman means something else entirely. Nothing you or I can do about it, it’s just the way of the world.

When I was younger, you couldn’t go to the movies without seeing actress Meg Ryan onscreen in some type of romantic comedy. Meg Ryan was the romantic comedy queen before Reese Witherspoon. The lady was simply everywhere, and like millions of her fans, I simply adored her. Then Meg Ryan disappeared. The reason why? Oh, no scandal or spectacular downfall. Nothing of the sort. The beautiful actress Meg Ryan turned forty, and apparently Hollywood stopped needing her services.

“May, I’m making breakfast, want an omelet with extra cheese?” The voice calling from my kitchenette belongs to my latest overnight guest, Phillip Angrand. Seriously, the dude stays over so much I might start charging him rent. Just kidding. I met this tall, handsome young Haitian stud while attending an alumni meeting at the University of Montreal. From the moment I first saw Phillip, I knew he would be trouble.

Phillip burst into the room looking for the U of M Alumni Association president ( and current University of Montreal faculty member ), professor Gerald Durosier. Phillip felt his civil engineering term paper merited an A rather than a B plus, and argued so compellingly with his prof, that he ended up getting his way. Stunned by this young man’s moxie, I approached him when I saw him at Starbucks after the meeting. You know the rest.

“Sounds good to me, mon cher,” I called out from the bedroom, and then I got up. Looking in the full-length mirror on my dresser, I took a close look at myself. A six-foot-tall, curvy, smiling woman with caramel-hued skin and almond-shaped golden brown acıbadem escort eyes looked back at me. My long black hair, which I almost always hide under a Hijab when I leave the house, hung loosely on my shoulders. I look good, all things considered.

Last week, I went to City Hall to have a new health card made, and the young woman working the counter couldn’t believe it when she saw the date on my Quebec driver’s licence. November 9, 1976. That’s right, I’ve been around for some time now. I’ve seen stars and trends come and go. I’ve also changed jobs more times than I can count. I studied psychology at the University of Montreal, and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in 1997. How did I end up spending the next two decades working for CIBC, one of Canada’s largest banks? Life happens, I guess.

During my final year of university, I met Mehmet Baykal, a tall and handsome young man originally from Malatya, Turkey. Mehmet and I hit it off, and started dating. Eventually we got married, and our daughter Mariam was born in 1998. While Mehmet and I had a passionate and at times tumultuous relationship, I soon realized that we just weren’t meant to be.

Like the song says, sometimes love just isn’t enough. For Mehmet and I, it definitely wasn’t. We got divorced in 2003. I’ve been doing the single mother thing ever since. These days, my lovely daughter Mariam is studying organic chemistry at the University of Calgary, and her father Mehmet is now married to Amanda, the white woman he was cheating on me with throughout our brief marriage. I hope he’s happy with the three sons she bore him. No, I am not bitter. It’s all well and good that we all moved on.

“Hey mamas, looking good this morning,” came a deep, masculine voice, and I turned around and found myself looking into the dark, handsome face of Phillip Angrand. With his slick goatee and curly dark hair, the Haitian stud reminded me of actor/rapper Ice Cube during his N.W.A. days. I had a crush on him back then. I smile at Phillip and give him a quick peck on the lips.

“Why thank you,” I reply, and Phillip smiles, then grips my ass in his hands. Phillip simply can’t get enough of my rather ample Somali derriere, and I love that about him. Growing up biracial in the City of Montreal, I was too dark for the Arab side of the family and too pale for the Somali side. I never really fit in anywhere, and it disturbed me somewhat. Too tall, too curvy, too pale or too dark, always too much or not enough. Damn.

“You look like you’ve been thinking too much, babe, you need to stop doing that,” Phillip says as he cups my chin in his hands. I look into his chestnut eyes, and the confidence that I see in them astounds me. Phillip is so manly and confident, so sure of who he is. I envy him those qualities, seriously. How I wish I could have had such confidence at his age.

Born akbatı escort in the environs of Montreal-Nord to Haitian immigrant parents, Phillip Angrand represents, in my honest opinion, the emergence of the new Canada. Young, minority, ambitious and fearless. The Canada of rapper Drake, and Somali-Canadian artist K’Naan, creator of the hit song Waving Flag. Not the stuffy and xenophobic Canada of Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper, whom voters gave the boot to. I’ve seen Phillip rock his Black Lives Matter T-shirt on campus and around the City of Montreal, and he amazes me.

“Yeah, and I know just what I need to do to get my mind off things,” I reply, and then before Phillip can say anything, I kneel before him and grab his dick. Phillip’s dick is long and thick, and uncircumcised. I’m a Muslim woman who loves uncut dicks. To me, they’re exotic and fun to play with. I love foreskins. Weird, I know. Whatever. I know what I like. I start sucking Phillip’s dick, and he groans as I work my magic on him.

“Damn, babe, you’re killing a brother,” Phillip whispers as he leans against the rail of my antique, four-poster bed. I flick my tongue over the hood of his dick, then peel back the foreskin, all the while massaging his balls gently with my hands. I’ve got Phillip right where I want him. I suck on his dick head, and look up at him. Phillip’s eyes are closed and he’s in a world of his own as I pleasure him. In no time I’ve got Phillip harder than a rock, and he screams my name.

Phillip is quite the screamer. Doesn’t bother me because I’m the same way. Last night, my favorite stud and I must have kept my neighbors up all night. After a sumptuous dinner at Restaurant Adonai, a chic Haitian spot in Montreal-Nord, Phillip and I caught a movie, then went home for some fun. Believe me when I tell you that Phillip is a passionate one…

“Hmm, give me that ass,” Phillip said, laughing as he put me on all fours, and yanked down my panties. I smiled and backed my ass up, until it was inches from Phillip’s face. Ass worship, sounds like a perfect end for a magical evening of culinary ecstasy as you ask me. Lucky for Phillip, I’m a clean freak who showers…a lot. Phillip spread my ass cheeks, caught a whiff and then began licking my asshole.

“Don’t talk to my booty, silly man, just take it,” I remember saying, and Phillip slid his fingers into my already wet pussy lips while worming his tongue into my asshole. I love having my ass licked, played with and more. I sat on Phillip’s handsome face like a queen on her throne, and happily rode him as he tongue my pussy and ass. Afterwards, I rolled a condom on Phillip’s dick, then straddled him and impaled my hungry pussy on that hard dick of his. Phillip then fucked me silly. It was fun.

“That was fun,” I said to Phillip as I rolled off of him, my pussy still sore from the aksaray escort pounding he just gave it. I was still horny as hell, and couldn’t wait to try Phillip in another hole of mine. I got on all fours and spread my thick ass cheeks wide open, exposing a fairly obvious target. Phillip looked at me, smiled and grabbed the bottle of Aloe cream on my nightstand. Time to get this show on the road…

“Far out,” Phillip said, and I saw a look of reverence in his eyes when I turned around. The brother looked at my booty as though mesmerized. I watched as he caressed it, then, at my urging, began applying lubrication on my hole. I fingered my pussy and waited impatiently as Phillip finally pressed his dick against my backdoor, and then pushed it inside. I grimaced a bit as Phillip’s dick popped into my ass, and then relaxed and enjoyed as he began fucking me with slow, deep strokes.

“Go nice and slow, dear,” I murmured, closing my eyes and sticking my ample derriere upwards as Phillip fucked me. I love anal sex, though it’s not something I do all the time. A lot of women do it, but few admit to it. The same holds true in Muslim communities, where a lot of secrecy and controversy surround sexual practices. Me? I’m almost forty. I’ve been a devoted wife, and I’m a proud mother, a successful businesswoman and more. I am a Muslim and I wear the Hijab proudly. Oh, and what I do with my ass is my own damn business.

“Amen to that,” Phillip said, laughing, and he gave my ass a firm slap as he fucked me. I opened my eyes and shot Phillip a look, and the smug bastard winked at me. I rolled my eyes and shrugged, and he continued fucking me, his dick sliding deep into my ass. So deep that it really hit my sweet spot, and I found myself moaning deeply. Anal sex is a lot different from vaginal sex. It’s wilder, and dirtier, and more intimate. I for one love it.

Yeah, Phillip and I had ourselves a passionate night after coming home from the restaurant. A lot of folks in the restaurant stared at us, the well-dressed, thirty-something, light-skinned Somali Hijabi with the tall, handsome young Haitian man sporting his University of Montreal colors. Phillip and I don’t give a damn about that because, well, our relationship is just about us. I fell asleep in my sweetie’s arms, happy as can be.

“Oh damn,” Phillip cried out, snapping me out of my little reverie and back into the present. Yes, I’m the kind of woman who can daydream with a dick in my mouth. Sue me. Phillip warns me that he’s about to cum, and when he does, it’s like a torrent of liquid fire pouring down my throat. Some women don’t like it. Some do. I love it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and look at Phillip, who smiles at me happily.

“Now let’s eat breakfast,” I say and a still smiling Phillip helps me up, and just like that, we head to the kitchen, where a delicious breakfast of omelet, buttered sandwiches and hot dogs awaits, along with two cups of steamy coffee. The cups will be over-sugared, because, Phillip, like a good Haitian, simply loves his sugar. Well, so do I. Sitting across from my boo, as they say in today’s lexicon, I smile with contentment. There are no perfect moments in this life, but this is close to being one of them. To many more days like this one.

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