The Saudi Female Wrestler

In 2017, the entire world was quite shocked upon finding out that Libyan savages were abducting Black migrants who hoped to cross into Europe by sea and selling them as slaves. Africans and others around the world were outraged, but they needn't be surprised. After all, the Arabs have a long and cruel history of mistreating Africans, in spite of their claims of universal brotherhood among Muslims.

As an Arab Muslim woman of Saudi Arabian and Libyan descent living in the City of Montreal, Quebec, I know this for sure. Indeed, I laugh at the hypocrisy of my fellow Arabs who feign outrage at the claim of slavery happening in modern Libya. As if their hatred for Africans has vanished. Ha! Everyone seems to be two-faced in my part of the world, or perhaps that's a universal trait.

Whatever, I'm glad to be living in Canada and have severed all ties with my so-called community. Arabs reading this will call me a traitor for what I'm about to say, but I don't give a damn anymore. After all the things I've done, from emancipating myself from the patriarchal ways of my culture, to marrying a Black man from America and having mixed-race twin daughters by him, I don't think they can hate me more than they already do...

My name is Sharifa Salamah-Cagney, and I first saw the light of day in the City of Gharyan, Libya. It's a place as different from my beloved Montreal as night is from day. It's where my father, Mazen Salamah fled after losing the favor of King Fahd of Saudi Arabia. He was a wealthy Emir and a member of the Royal Judiciary of Saudi Arabia, but got banished after some improprieties came to light.

Fearing for his life, my father fled to Libya, where he married a local woman, Fatima Al-Barassi. The two of them settled in Gharyan, and had little old me. My father could never stay out of politics, or out of trouble for that matter. He made friends with a Libyan military commander named Abdullah Saadawi, a one-time rival of Libyan superman and oligarch Mouammar Kadhafi. As a result of my father's poor choice of friends, our family was forced to flee Libya. That's how we ended up claiming refugee status in Canada.

I came to the City of Montreal, Quebec, at an early age but I still remembered Libya, where I grew up. I remember the way that dark-skinned people were often mistreated by the Arabs, especially in the town of Misrata, where my father sometimes worked as a civil engineer for the Libyan State. Living in Montreal taught me how backwards my part of the world was, especially when it came to racial and gender relations.

I'm not saying that the City of Montreal doesn't have racism, or sexism, but at least in this town, there are Black police officers, Black professors at colleges and universities, and female politicians and female professional athletes. While attending Lycee Verdieu, a private school, I tried out for the previously all-male wrestling squad, and made it. In spite of my father's reservations, I became the first female wrestler in the 107-year history of Lycee Verdieu.

I learned to compete against young men on their turf, and amassed twenty victories ( out of thirty two matches ) during my first season on the wrestling squad. Not bad for a gal who grew up as a Hijab-wearing, pious and respectful little angel in one of the world's most conservative societies, eh? I became a role model for female wrestlers everywhere, and even got interviewed by the Montreal Gazette. I was new to Canada, and had already made my mark on it. Fate had big things in store for me...

After graduating from Lycee Verdieu, I enrolled at the University of Montreal, to study civil engineering. The school lacked a wrestling team, for either men or women, and although I tried to start one, there simply wasn't enough interest. I ended up joining the University of Montreal women's rugby squad during my freshman year. By then, I was a big, tough gal. Mother nature and the forces of fate must have foreseen much hardship for yours truly, for they made me a force to reckon with.

At nineteen years old, I stood five feet ten inches tall, a bit on the curvy side, which is a nice way of saying that I was chubby, and I was no one to mess with. I was still wearing the Hijab as I started university, and no, it wasn't just because of my parents. I loved my Islamic faith, even though the racist and sexist behavior of many Muslims irked the hell out of me. I wanted to show the world that a Hijab-wearing Muslim woman could be strong, and defy stereotypes that were espoused both by Muslims and Westerners...

While in university, I met the man destined to change my life forever. Tariq Jefferson Cagney, a man from a most unique background. T.J. was a newcomer to the University of Montreal by way of Roxbury, Massachusetts. Six foot one inch tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome, with medium brown skin and long, curly dark hair which he styled into an Afro. This brother caught my attention when he saw me working out at the school gym, and offered to spot me...

"Non merci, monsieur, I'm fine, thank you," I replied, puzzled by this random ( albeit handsome ) guy who was getting into my personal space. He didn't look familiar, and I figured he was one of those visitors from another school. Montreal has a lot of colleges and universities, with McGill and Concordia University but a couple of the more famous ones, so this dude could have come from anywhere.

"Just an offer, ma'am," the handsome stranger replied, and that's when I detected a U.S. accent in his voice. We don't get a lot of Americans in the City of Montreal, Quebec. People from the U.S. seem to prefer cities like Toronto, Calgary, Halifax, Vancouver, or even boring old Ottawa to our beloved Montreal. I guess it's the French influence that scares them. Whatever.

I finished working out, and then hit the showers, then headed back to the campus library. The school library has become my second home, since I have so much work to do. Civil engineering isn't the easiest major out there, but I've always loved building things and figuring out how things work. I'm that gal who played with fire trucks instead of Barbie Dolls coming up. Tomboy in a Hijab, that's me. Take it or leave it.

"Can I seat here?" came a voice, and I looked up from my Engineering Dynamics book to find a vision of masculine beauty standing before me. There he was, the handsome stranger from the gym. I rolled my eyes and nodded, and the smiling stranger sat down, and promptly introduced himself as Omar Jefferson Cagney, holding his hand out for me to shake.

"Um, good to meet you, I'm Sharifa," I replied, and T.J. smiled, shook my hand, and then nodded before opening his book, Ethics of Engineering. I was quite surprised to see that we were in the same programme. You don't find a lot of brothers in engineering. For the most part, it's a lot of Chinese guys, Indian guys, along with lots of White guys and a few women of any color. This dude was indeed different...

"Are you from here? My professor has a thick French accent and I can barely understand him," T.J. said, and he fixed his soulful brown eyes on me. I looked up from my book, and sighed before answering. I had lived in Montreal for over a decade and spoke French, English and Arabic fluently. I'd recently become a Canadian citizen. I didn't have any discernible accent. I cheered for the Montreal Canadiens hockey team like the best of them. I considered myself as Canadian as Prime Minister Trudeau. I HATED being asked where I came from...

"T.J. listen to me very carefully, my friend, I am Canadian, where are YOU from?" I retorted, somewhat angrily. T.J. looked at me and flashed that annoying, charming and utterly annoying smile of his. The smile of a man who was definitely used to getting his way. I've seen such a smile on actor Will Smith's mug while watching Fresh Prince Of Bel Air. Such a smile would not work on a strong Arab-Canadian Muslim woman like myself...

"Whoa, sister, I didn't mean to offend you, I'm from Boston, I just have a hard time understanding any French, that's all," T.J. said, and I saw his grin vanish, replaced by a look of alarm. I smiled at T.J. the way a shark might smile at a codfish. Got you on your toes, big man, now let's move in for the kill, I thought, relishing this hunky stranger's sheer discomfort.

"It's alright, T.J. just remember that we are all immigrants here, including the White people, the only people who aren't from somewhere else are the Natives," I replied sweetly, and T.J. nodded. We talked for a bit, and I found out that he was an international student, having moved to Montreal because his parents, fearing for his safety due to clashes between Nation of Islam members and the Boston Police, sent him away.

"I'm a Muslim, but not a Sunni or a Shiite, I'm from the Nation of Islam, you know, Malcolm X's people," T.J. said, and I looked at him, puzzled. I'd heard a lot of things about Malcolm X, the heroic, and tragic, African American freedom fighter and social activist who fought against racial segregation in America. Of course, I didn't know Jack about the Nation of Islam. I was a Sunni Muslim woman from the Arab world. America mystified me...

"Wow, there's actually branches of Islam I know nothing about," I blurted out, and T.J. smiled, and then he told me all about his faith. Much of it was surprising. As a Sunni Muslim woman, I believed that Prophet Mohammed was the last of the Holy Messengers. T.J. claimed that the Nation of Islam believed an American figure known as Elijah Muhammad was yet another messenger, and this both irked and fascinated me. I had to know more...

"Sister, I'm going for coffee, please join me, I'd love to tell you all about the Nation of Islam, we've done a lot for America, and the cause of freedom," T.J. said, and when his eyes met mine, I saw the promise of danger and something else, in his. Don't ask me what prompted me to accept, but I did. I went to Tim Horton's with this intriguing, perfect stranger.

That's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. The relationship which would change my life. I couldn't foresee that from this initial meeting a friendship would be forged. One which would soon turn into mutual attraction. T.J. Cagney intrigued me, and I was drawn to him. He was confident, fearless and self-assured, so unlike the browbeaten Blacks from Libya, and other parts of the Arab world. T.J. carried himself like a prince...and I wanted to be his princess.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever known," I said to T.J. as we walked out of the movie theater, after watching The Long Kiss Goodnight, featuring Geena Davis and Samuel L. Jackson. It was October 1996, and we'd known each other for about a month. I was in my second year at the University of Montreal, and even though I knew every street in this town, I was rediscovering Montreal by exploring it with my new lover...

"I'm just a brother trying to get ahead and live my life," T.J. said, smiling and he took my hand and brought it to his lips. I giggled quite girlishly, and we continued walking down Rue Sherbrooke, near the McGill University campus. As a true Carabin sports fan, I stuck my tongue out at McGill, home of the Redmen, and encouraged T.J. to do the same. That's when he pulled me close and kissed me, right then and there, and I almost passed out.

"Hmm, you've got sweet lips, Mister Massachusetts, we'll have to find a way to keep your cute ass in Montreal," I said to T.J. as I gave his cute bum a firm squeeze. T.J. gasped in surprise, then smiled at me. What? A lot of gals like to grab male asses and I am one of them. Just because I'm a Muslim gal who wears the Hijab doesn't mean I can't grab your butt...if I fancy you, that is. I smiled innocently at T.J. who grinned and shook his head.

"You're full of surprises, Sharifa," T.J. said, and I nodded, and then this time, I kissed him. We embraced passionately, not caring that we were on one of Montreal's most crowded streets. There were tons of people of all hues going to and fro, as befitting Montreal, but I didn't care, and neither did T.J. I couldn't get enough of my handsome African American stud, and he seemed to crave me just as much as I craved him. We really must do something about that...

In the 1990s, Canada experienced an influx of immigrants from places like Somalia, and Lebanon. These immigrants, predominantly Muslim, came to Canada with their unique cultures and faiths. They would forever change the fabric of Canadian society, especially in major cities like Toronto and Montreal. I welcomed these people into Canada, thrilled to see fellow Muslims filling up Montreal. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten how barbaric and backwards some of my fellow believers could be...

By the time T.J. and I had begun dating seriously, my life had changed profoundly in many ways. For one thing, I was estranged from my folks, and fine with it. My parents were divorced, and both were in blossoming relationships with their new Canadian significant others. My father Mazen Salamah moved in with Genevieve Lefebvre, a thirty-year-old, blonde-haired French Canadian schoolteacher. A lot of western women love Muslim men, and Genevieve was such a gal...

My mother Fatima Al-Barassi started renting rooms in our old townhouse in Laval to young women. One of them was a short-haired, tattooed, downright masculine gal named Emmanuelle Racine. Long story short, my mother and Emmanuelle grew very close, if you catch my drift. Way closer than landladies and female tenants are supposed to grow. Yes, this is what became of my conservative Muslim parents after living a few years in Canada. Is that funny or what?

Anyhow, where was I going with this? Oh yes, I was telling you about my burgeoning relationship with T.J. Cagney and our fellow Muslims reactions to our interracial relationship. We were coming out of Chez Francine, a chic Haitian restaurant located in Montreal-Nord, when we ran into a trio of young Arab guys who looked Lebanese. They saw T.J. and I walking about, hand in hand, and did not approve.

"Sister, does your father know you're dating an Abeed?" one of them shouted, using the Arabic term for slave, and the others laughed. T.J. stood protectively in front of me, and although he didn't speak any Arabic, he could tell that they were indeed hostile. They glared at us, laughed and spat on the ground. Not one to back down before racist bozos, T.J. challenged them.

"Hey, buddy, speak English or shut the fuck up," T.J. said, and the three Lebanese guys did not approve of his words. They exchanged surprised looks, for they were definitely not used to dealing with the kind of Black men who wouldn't put up with racism. They came at T.J. and I stood by his side, ready to fight. I remembered what I learned on the mat as a female varsity wrestler, and made good use of it...

"Go to hell, you rats," I shouted, and T.J. and I waded into the Lebanese guys, and we tore into them. They came at us, expecting easy prey, and T.J. and I surprised them. We got bruises, and a few boo-boos, as they say, but we fought them off. T.J. traded punches with two of them. I punched the third and left a nasty gouge on his cheek with my rather long fingernails. Just a little something for this racist Arab dude to remember me by...

"You are amazing, my love," T.J. said to me, after we reached my place. I looked at him, taking in his bloodied lips and bruised face, and he never looked so handsome to me as he did in that moment. I kissed T.J. passionately, and he kissed me back. Slowly, tenderly, we began making love. I had been alternately aching to make love to T.J. and hoping to hold onto my virtue, until I couldn't resist my urges anymore. Oh yeah, tonight was definitely the night...

"I would die for you," I said breathlessly, holding T.J.'s face in my hands, and we tumbled on my bed, and began exploring one another. Off came my Hijab, and my Habs jersey, and my jeans. Naked, I lay before T.J. and his soulful brown eyes roved over my curvy body. I felt self-conscious about my chubby body, my wide hips, my thick thighs, and my huge round bottom. I was a chubby brown woman in a world that worshipped skinny pale bitches and I was painfully aware of it...

"Sharifa, you're so beautiful," T.J. said, as though reading my mind, and he undressed before me. I smiled as he revealed his tall, dark-skinned, muscular and virile body. I feasted my eyes on such masculine perfection, and I rose and greeted my dark king with open mouth, eager hands, and a wanton body. T.J. kissed me, and caressed my breasts, pinching my nipples.

"Make love to me," I murmured, and T.J. grinned, and laid me there, then went to work on me. I lay there, moaning and quivering with ecstasy as T.J. sucked on my breasts, caressed my body, and fingered my pussy, sending tendrils of pleasure coursing throughout my whole being. When T.J. spread my thick thighs and began eating my pussy, I thrashed wildly on the bed and cried out with joy, absolutely loving what he was doing to me...

"Open yourself up to me and relax," T.J. paused to say, and I sighed and did just that. My lover teased my clitoris with his tongue and fingered my pussy, sending me tumbling towards ecstasy. When I finally came, I went buck-wild and screamed like a madwoman, howling T.J.'s name till kingdom come. It felt great to cut loose like this, and when I finally calmed down, I was safely in T.J.'s strong arms...

"Wow, you amaze me," I said, still a bit 'hmm' after the whammy T.J. just laid on me. As the night progressed, we continued to explore. Eager to pleasure T.J. I kissed him, and played with his chest hairs, and inhaled the manly scent emanating from his groin. When I took his dick into my mouth, T.J. closed his eyes and called out my name...

"Go slow, Sharifa," T.J. said, and I took my sweet time as I fellated him, gently massaging his balls while pleasuring him. T.J. made sexy grunting noises as I sucked him off, and when he came, I happily tasted his manly essence. I smiled up at him just as he opened his eyes, and T.J. returned my smile. Pulling me into his arms, he kissed me again, and then I straddled him. Looking into T.J.'s eyes, I saw a deep desire, one which matched my own.

"T.J. this will be my first time," I said, and this gave him pause. I'd fooled around with some guys as a university student, like most of the young women I knew at U of M, but I had never gone all the way. I'd gone down on guys and had guys go down on me, eat my sweet pussy, but I'd never let a man inside of me. Not really. This was the moment of truth...

"Just relax, my angel," T.J. said, and he kissed me, then resumed making love to me. I lay on my back, with my nipples erect, my thick legs in the air, burning with desire and need, and also a bit of fear. I was about to lose my virginity to the man I love, the only man I've ever loved, and I was quite nervous. T.J. gently urged me to relax, and assured me that I was in good hands...

"I'm ready," I murmured, and T.J. nodded, then pressed his long, dark dick against my pussy lips. With a swift thrust, he entered me. I cried out as he penetrated me, for I felt a slight pain, and T.J. slowed down a bit. I urged him to continue, and he began fucking me with slow, deep strokes. After those initial tense moments, I relaxed and enjoyed, as T.J. filled my womanhood with his dick, and my joyful screams soon filled the apartment...

"Give me that sweet ass, Sharifa," T.J. said as he propped me on all fours, and gave my thick round bum a sound spanking. I licked my lips, my flesh ablaze with lust, and I felt my pussy drip with excitement as T.J. rubbed his thick manhood against me. Gripping my hips, T.J. thrust into me, and began fucking me with deep, powerful strokes. I cried out passionately, loving what the hunky brother from America was doing to me...

"Go ahead, T.J. tap that ass," I squealed, and my ardent lover happily obliged me. I was tickled pink when he began smacking my ass with one hand and pulling my long hair with the other. I relished the deliciously hot pain I felt inside as he rammed his dick inside of me. I moaned and cried out as he fucked me silly, owning me, making me his. T.J. fucked with wild abandon, and I welcomed this manly onslaught into my most private parts, yearning to his and his alone...