Somali Christian Girl's Story

The world's oldest profession. Now there's something I never thought I'd fall into. Not a pious, Hijab-wearing Somali Muslim sister like I once was. Life, it sure can kick you in the teeth, can't it? Considering what it ultimately led me to, I shouldn't complain, though. Life has a way of working out. My name is Saada Hawiye and I'm a young Somali woman living in the City of London, England. I was born in the town of Ali Sabieh, in the south of Djibouti. My parents, Kader and Sagal Hawiye left our war-torn Somali community with my brother Yusuf and I for the bright lights of the United Kingdom thanks to some humanitarian organizations that would later regret helping us Somalis settle in places like Canada and Europe. We weren't meant for life in secular, liberal western society but nobody knew that at the time.

I embraced London and all that it had to offer, unlike my parents, who couldn't stop talking about the old country. Personally, I don't miss that old ball of mud known as Somalia and if I never see it again, it will be too soon. If Somalia were so great why would so many of us beg immigration authorities in Europe, America, Canada and Australia to help us leave it? I love life in England and cherish everything it has to offer. Seriously, I get tired of hearing Somalis criticize western society for its liberated women, its raw sexuality, its endless freedoms and its bon vivant attitude. The doom and gloom mindset of most Muslims irks me, I guess that's why I befriended people of other faiths and lifestyles during my high school days.

My brother Yusuf is so different from me. We are only three years apart and we look a lot alike. Like him I'm tall and willowy, with light brown skin, curly black hair and almond-shaped honey-brown eyes. He's six-foot-four and built like a sportsman but he's as nerdy as can be. Always has his face buried in the Koran. He'd been in the Madrasa schools back in Somalia and to him, the City of London was the definition of haram with its free-spirited and ( to him ) provocatively dressed, liberated women. I always knew that he was hiding something behind the almost divine hauteur and sheer disdain with which he viewed all things western. Me? I'm five-foot-ten, slim and fit but with curves and a nice round derriere, and people say I look like Melanie from The Game. Oh, please. That bitch looks like me!

My brother Yusuf was a real pain in the ass back in the day. I'd wear my Hijab while leaving the house and I'd take it off as soon as I was a few blocks away. He'd tell on me. This used to make so damn mad. I used to put laxatives in his food as revenge but the tight ass probably never noticed. Later in life Yusuf would walk away from much of the social and religious conditioning he received back in Somalia, and go off in an entirely different direction. This is the same man who once told our entire family that his highest aspiration was to become a Sheikh and help the spread of Islam in England. He did no such thing, instead he ended up surprising the whole family by coming out as gay at the age of twenty four and moving in with a white dude named Coleman Rosenberg whom he met at an interfaith meeting at Middlesex University. Coleman, by the way, is Jewish. One of the very people so hated by so many of my fellow Muslims. How's that for supreme irony of ironies? I can't stop laughing every time I think of the two of them living together in Birmingham with their little dog Duchess. Methinks my brother doth protest too much, eh?

As for my mother Sagal Hawiye, the matriarch of our little clan, she seldom left the house and spent her days watching television, or gossiping with her lady friends who would visit every damn day. The funny and kind of sad thing is the contempt she and my father shared for one another. My father cheated on her quite openly with a plump white lady named Deirdre who lived next door. What he doesn't know is that mom cheated on him with his poker buddy Abdirahman, a Yemeni fellow from the local Masjid. Ah, cheaters, the Muslim edition. The only reason why I survived my family and the unique madness they brought to my existence is Alicia the gal next door. Keeper of my sanity.

My best friend Alicia Kensington is mixed, born in the environs of Berkshire, England, to a Jamaican mother and white father. While a lot of the Somali girls at school judged me for my appearance, lack of religiosity and feisty attitude, Alicia offered me unconditional friendship and acceptance. I was hesitant to befriend her since we came from different worlds but I soon discovered what a truly wonderful person she was. This lovely Christian gal has been a better friend to me than any Muslim I've ever met. Alicia and I have been inseparable since high school. In many ways she's the sister I always wanted but never had.

When I ran away from home during my final year of high school, tired of my father's constant verbal and physical abuse, my mother's indifference and my older brother's harsh criticism, Alicia gave me eighty pounds from her piggy bank and let me stay in her parents basement. Eventually I returned home, brought by Youth Welfare Services. These dullards have no idea what Muslim parents do to wayward daughters. Doesn't matter how many honor killings and forced marriage they read about in the bloody papers. Their willful blindness irked me. Nevertheless, I survived the scolding and whipping I got from my parents upon my return. I decided that I would focus on school and eventually, I'd go to university, get a job and be free. My parents have been living off the welfare system since we arrived in London from Somalia. They barely speak English. Once I'm out there in the world, they won't be able to find me. Yes, that night as I lay on my bed, bruised and battered, with tears flowing down my face, I concocted this plan for survival. The only person I told about it was Alicia, of course.

As I said before, we were friends throughout high school and when that ended, Alicia went to study chemistry at Brunel University while I enrolled at Kingston University, to study accounting since I've always had a head for numbers. I think I spent more time at Brunel University than at the Kingston campus because I often went to hang out with Alicia. She introduced me to her chum, a six-foot-tall, handsome Ethiopian Orthodox Christian guy named Ammanuel Eskedar. Alicia has always loved the brothers, which is surprising since her father is white and her mother is black. Most mixed young women I know who are of partial African descent go for white males. Ammanuel was studying civil engineering at the University of Westminster and he fell in love with Alicia. Like many Somalis I was weary of Ethiopians since we've got a history of conflict between us but Ammanuel was a nice chap. He was open-minded and friendly, and the few times I hung out with him and Alicia he was charming and courteous.

I was happy for Alicia when Ammanuel proposed to her, a year after they met, and she happily accepted. This is where I envy my Christian girlfriends. Finding love is so easy for them. In the Muslim world, we have arranged marriages. Love isn't even on the table. Anyhow, I shouldn't fret. I did find the one I was meant for, but how I found him is in a roundabout way. You see, during my third year at Kingston University, the government decided that I was no longer eligible for financial aid and I was forced to find alternative means of paying for school. I worked as a security guard, a waitress and even a cleaner. None of these jobs helped me much. I had rent to pay, and groceries, and tuition. I needed to find another solution. While browsing the back pages of a newspaper, I saw some interesting ads. A modeling agency was recruiting exotic girls. I answered the ad, and somehow it led me to the world's oldest profession.

The 'modeling agency' hired escort girls from African, Asian and Arabian backgrounds to wealthy clients. At first, I was uncomfortable and worried but I had my first client and everything went fine. His name was George MacLeod, a middle-aged white barrister from Scotland who was visiting London. He wanted to lick my pussy, and considering he was paying five hundred pounds for the whole night, I didn't mind. Other clients had different needs and expectations. A Saudi businessman named Saadiq proved to be a true sadist, putting me on all fours, smacking my ass and calling me degrading names in Arabic while shoving his short, condom-covered dick inside of me. After that episode I felt dirty and almost quit the agency but from an experienced Lebanese co-worker named Yasmina I learned a valuable secret. How to blank my mind and essentially become a robot while having sex with rich men for money. Always use condoms and always watch out for dirty tricks, Yasmina told me. I definitely heeded her advice.

I spent the better part of the summer working at the agency, and I amassed eight thousand pounds after giving the agency their cut. I had enough for school but who was I kidding? I wanted more money. I had gotten myself a new apartment, a fancy new wardrobe, and I liked the high life. If I had to sell my ass for cash, so be it. I never told Alicia what I was doing but she began to suspect. One night she confronted me about it, and we, um, had words. I called her a dumb bitch with high morals and no sense of reality, something I had never done before, and the hurt look on her pretty face will haunt me for the rest of my days. When Alicia rushed out of my apartment, I chased after her but she ran away. I returned to the living room, had a glass of wine, and wept. I had hurt my best friend.

Evidently, this wasn't enough to shame me out of what I was doing. I continued working, and making money. I also became addicted to red wine, the good stuff. I didn't do drugs. I just never took to them. One day, while working out at the gym I met a six-foot-tall, handsome and well-built young man. He introduced himself as Marcel Mercier, and I must say he was easy on the eyes with his honey-brown skin, curly black hair and pale greenish eyes. He was mixed, that much I could tell. When I asked him about his origins he told me he was born in the City of Orlando, Florida, to a Haitian father and white mother. Damn, a Haitian-American, what's he doing in London, England? Marcel told me he transferred to Kingston University from the University of Central Florida. I always wanted to see the world and London is da bomb, he said with a bright smile.

Marcel and I talked for a bit, and he inevitably asked for my phone number and Facebook. I don't know why but I gave him both. I don't typically do that with guys and I honestly haven't had any relations with men other than clients. Yet there was something about Marcel. When he asked me to check out a movie with him, followed by a quick bite at a Lebanese restaurant and a visit to an art gallery, I went and actually had fun. Sitting across from this handsome, well-dressed and carefree young brother with his American accent, I felt happy for the first time in ages. Later he told me he had a thing for Somali girls ever since he spent a summer at his aunt's place in Minnesota, where lots of Somali-Americans live. Something about a Hijab gal with a booty, he said with a smirk. Too much info, I said with a smile, gently touching his arm.

After dinner and the art gallery, Marcel and I walked around Old London and had a nice time. I've lived in London for most of my life and know it like the back of my hand. Walking around town with an American, seeing it through his eyes, now that was different. When our date concluded, I surprised Marcel ( and myself ) by hugging him and kissing him on the cheek, and agreeing to a second date on the spot. That night, the modeling agency told me that one of my regulars, the Scottish barrister, was requesting me. I told them that I was unavailable, and refused even when the madam told me he'd pay extra. I'm on my damn period, I told her, and hung up. I went to bed with a smile on my face, and thoughts of my American ( prospective ) boyfriend in my head. It was my first date ever, and it went pretty damn well.

The next day, I called Alicia because, well, I wanted to talk about Marcel with someone. Girlfriend talk, you know? I was excited about a man for the first time in my twenty one years and I wanted to discuss it with my best friend. Alicia didn't pick up. I checked Facebook and found out she de-friended me. What the fuck? That was cold! Screw you bitch, I thought, shaking my head. I nicely blocked her, then went to work. I had a lively session with a forty-something married Ghanaian artist named Paul, and the stuff he was into really surprised me. I always thought that BDSM and the kinky stuff with whips and chains was for white people. I'd certainly never met any black person who was into it though I'm sure they're out there. Paul, a towering, athletically built middle-aged Black man surprised me by presenting me with a whip and a strap-on dildo. Go hard on me my chocolate mistress, he said with a smile. He'd specifically requested a black female escort because he liked dominant black women. Since he was so polite and friendly, and was paying me so well, I definitely revved up his engine.

I donned the strap-on dildo, and looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wearing a red bra and matching panties, I looked hot. Are you Somali? asked Paul. I hesitated, then nodded. Before we could begin, Paul asked me something which surprised me. Would you mind wearing a Hijab while fucking me with the strap-on? That's what he said. I was too shocked to be angry. What the fuck? When he said that, I felt conflicted. I'm not the most observant Muslim out there and I definitely know that by having sex with men for money I am violating too many Koranic rules to list here. Still, to go from that to wearing Hijab during sexual activity? I looked at Paul, and the headscarf he pulled out of his bag. This is going to cost you extra hundred pounds, I said angrily as I put on the Hijab. Paul nodded, smiling like an idiot.

I took Paul, and put him on all fours, butt-ass naked. I spanked his hairy black ass and whipped his back, arms and legs with the whip. He howled like a bitch and begged me for more. I put a ball gag in his mouth and grabbed his cock and balls, twisting them this way and that in my hand. His eyes bulged in pain and I smiled wickedly. You're my little bitch, I told him as I spat on his face. Then I bent him over, face down and ass up, and fucked him with the strap-on dildo after lubricating his ass. The big Ghanaian dude huffed and puffed as I slammed the dildo up his ass, calling him all kinds of names. I wanted to make him suffer for all of this, and I most definitely did.

I really got into it, smacking Paul and even clawing him with my nails while ravaging his ass with the strap-on dildo. At some point I even put him on his back, with his big legs in the air and his dick in my hand as I pumped the dildo into him. I leaned closer to him, dangling my boobs close to his face without letting him suck on them until he begged me to. I let him suck on my tits as I filled his ass with the strap-on dildo. I'm not a psychology student but I think he's got mommy issues. The whole time I fucked him he kept saying "yes mistress" or "my dominant mommy". Not my problem. I fucked him real good for an hour, and as my crowning achievement for the night, I squatted all over his face and not only farted inches from his nose but I also pissed on him. Golden showers are my favorite, an enthusiastic Paul told me after. He's my first black client and by far the biggest pervert I've had. Still, since he paid fifteen hundred pounds for my time, I didn't fret. Thank you and come again, I said with a smile as Paul left the fun house. Winking at me, he smiled and left. I had fun and I made a profit, life is good.

The next day, Marcel and I went to Summer Orientation for new students at Kingston University. He was the only American student though we had a few people from places like South Africa, Brazil, Eritrea, Spain, Italy, Nigeria, Germany, Bangladesh, Colombia and Cuba. After orientation we walked through the campus together, Marcel's first tour of the place, and grabbed a bite at The Island Sun, a nice eatery near campus. It's a Jamaican restaurant which Alicia and I used to dine in when she'd come visit me at Kingston University. We had some delicious rice and beans with goat meat and Jamaican patties, which we washed down with orange juice. Throughout lunch Marcel told me how thrilled he was to have met me and how wonderful everything in London was.

Sitting across from him, I felt...torn. I felt both happy and sad. Happy to be here with him, this charming young Haitian-American man who obviously liked me. Why was I sad? Gee, where shall I begin? I'm on a date with Marcel, a guy I am honestly starting to really like in the same restaurant I once hung out with Alicia, the gal I consider the sister I've never had but always wanted. I wonder what Marcel would think if he knew what I was. A hooker. An escort. A courtesan. A prostitute. A lady of the night. I'm at Kingston University studying accounting, but sometimes I feel like I'm a fraud. I've deceived those who matter the most to me, and I hate myself for it. How do I get out of this?

Some of what I was feeling must have reflected on my face, for Marcel touched my hand and asked me if I was alright. I nodded, and put on a brave smile. I'm glad to be here with you, I said with a wink. Marcel smiled, and told me about his adventures at Scouts camp back in the Florida Everglades. Something about getting chased by alligators after going into the water, in spite of their Scout master's warnings. That definitely seems like something Marcel would do. He's got daredevil written all over him. Marcel had a pensive look on that handsome mug of his so I asked him what's up. I've got to ask you something, he said grimly. My heart skipped a beat. Was he going to delve into questions about my life? Gosh I hoped not because I was unprepared to deal with that at the moment. As if on cue, guess who walked into the restaurant? A certain middle-aged white man. George, the Scottish barrister and my very first client. The man I lost my virginity to. The one who couldn't get enough of me. When I saw him, I freaked. He saw me, glanced at Marcel, and then sat at a table nearby. Shit, what is he doing here?

I'm not the most religious man in the world but I was raised Christian, Marcel said. He opened his mouth to continue but I stopped him with my index finger on his lips. I was raised Muslim but I date whoever I want regardless of race or religion, I told Marcel with a defiant grin. The relieved smile on his face brought joy to my heart. I'm glad to hear that, he said, sighing with relief. I smiled, and leaned over, and before he could react, I kissed him. Yup, I planted a big wet one right on his lips. Marcel's eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled bashfully. What was that for? he asked. I am nothing if not spontaneous, I said, grabbing his arm and taking him outside. I felt like walking, all of a sudden, and I could think of no better company. We left the restaurant together, and George's eyes followed us the entire time.

Later that afternoon, after much walking, Marcel and I shared a passionate kiss on the train. I threw my arms around him like I've seen girls do on TV and in the movies and hugged him as we kissed. Marcel stroked my chin and looked into my eyes, then he told me I was beautiful. I bet you say that to all the cute Somali girls Mister Haitian, I said with a grin. Only the ones I like, Marcel laughed. The next minute he was all serious. Be mine, he said. When he said that, my heart skipped a beat. Long had I dreamed of hearing these words from a wonderful man who would make me his and cherish me forever. And now I heard them, and...sadness and joy shot through me like twin arrows. You don't know me, I told Marcel. He sighed, and took my face in his hands. You're a beautiful and educated sister who's going places and I want you with me, he said. He sounded so sure of himself. Would he still feel the same way if he knew what I've done? What I was still doing? I wanted to be with him, let go of my troubles and stay in his strong and loving arms but I couldn't. Not yet. Is there someone else? Marcel asked me. I hesitated, then shook my head. No other man in my life but you, I told him. He walked me to my place like the sweetheart that he is, then left.