Translated from the original title:

Az Arab, 2015

Copyright © Borsa Brown, 2023

Hungarian edition © Álomgyár Kiadó, 2023

All rights reserved.

Cover design: Gergely Barna

Editor: Judit Kalocsai

Translator: Veronika Goitein

Typesetter: Adrienn Dubecz

Álomgyár Kiadó, Budapest, 2023

Head of Publishing: Viktor Nagypál

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E-book conversion
Békyné Kiss Adrien

ISBN 978-963-5707-97-3

“Greed and lust, hatred and cunningness, smartness and violence, benevolence and warmth. It’s all part of the fantastic blend that makes the Arab character seem so inexplicable in the eyes of an outsider.”

(Leon Uris)

“And due to them [i.e., the wives] is similar to what is expected of them, according to what is reasonable. But the men [i.e., husbands] have a degree over them [in responsibility and authority]. And Allah is Exalted in Might and Wise.”

(Detail: Koran 2. Surah, 228.)

Chapter 1.

“You know you can’t sleep with all the women you fancy.”

“Why not? Remember, I can do whatever I want.”

I hate these American whores anyway. They are up for absolutely anything. Just flash a few dollars or a bit of gold at them, and they will be taking off their panties, no questions asked. Same goes for European bitches. I don’t mean the professional ones, I mean those gorgeous young women who just want to earn a bit of cash. And I, Jamal Ibn Hussain Ibn Abdul al-Sudairi, can give them that.

“You should marry a Saudi lady meant for you, and start making sons.”

A Saudi lady meant for me? I can and will marry not one, but at least four. And I will use them to bear me sons. Not daughters though. I don’t want any daughters! That’s how I was raised. I don’t give a damn about so-called emotions. I am used to surrounding myself with whores and luxury. Amir is the only person who doesn’t try to get me to mend my ways. He is my cousin, but he is really like a brother to me. He is twenty-nine, I’m twenty-seven. Amir already has three wives, two daughters and a son, but this doesn’t mean he would ever miss out on a saucy fling.

“Are you flying back to Riyadh?” he asks, takes a sip of coffee, pulls a face and swallows it.

I never drink coffee in America. In Europe I can find decent coffee sometimes, which tastes like the Arabic variety, but I hate everything American.

“We closed the deal, so our business here is finished. But I’m not going back. I have to fly to Europe.”

Amir takes another sip and pulls another face. The tall, skinny blonde waitress watches him and grins. I’m sure she has figured out already that we are oil millionaires here.

Bitch.

“If you go to Europe now, you won’t be back on time. And if you miss the pilgrimage again this year, your father will skin you alive.”

Yep.

He is right, I shouldn’t miss the pilgrimage. Last year I couldn’t make it because I was stuck in this lousy country due to some business arrangements. Business is important of course, but we have different values. My father was furious.

Every Muslim man must make the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in a lifetime. As the holy city is in my country, Saudi Arabia, we take part almost every year. It makes me feel at peace.

I had strict Islamic education as a child.

I hate the tent cities where commoners stay. We always book into the five-star hotels nearby, but that’s all the comfort we can get. During the Hajj{1} season it is forbidden to shave, to drink alcohol and to have sex. Women don’t hide their faces behind veils, because men look at them differently during pilgrimage. Mecca is like a border. Everyone must obey strict rules. Mecca is the city of Allah, the city of God’s Laws. All Muslims must live according to Sharia{2} law, and there is no place in the holy city for non-Muslims.

My biggest problem is the lack of amusements. Once I stayed in a hotel and broke the rule of abstaining from sex, which meant that my entire pilgrimage became worthless. All that praying and sacrifices were for nothing. It felt like shit, and I have obeyed the rules ever since.

My family substituted for the pilgrimage a few times, which is done by sending someone else on our behalf, and donating a huge amount of money. Funnily enough, this is accepted in our society. We had no other solution at that time, because my father, Prince Hussain Ibn Abdul al-Sudairi was very sick. During those years none of his sons visited Mecca. He has more than ten sons, officially at least. My father has four wives, but luckily his favorite is Nubia, my mother, so his sons by her are his favorite sons.

So we were expecting my father to die, but he miraculously recovered. Allah loves him, He always has.

“I will send someone to substitute for me. And it’s my own business whether I go or not; I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“It’s to your conscience you owe an explanation.”

Mecca is quite far from Riyadh. The holy city is near the Red Sea, but the capital, Riyadh, is in the center of the country.

The skinny blonde totters up to us and puts a bowl of peanuts on our table. Amir stares, and his eyes say everything. She is pretty, but I don’t fancy thin girls. She had her breasts done, but she has hips like a little girl.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She is smiling and eying me first, then she turns her attention to Amir. I adjust my trousers. They’re getting uncomfortably tight, because the way this bitch is looking at me makes my dick stand up.

Amir glances at me, then at the girl, then a faint smile appears on his face.

No way! I’m certainly not going to agree to a threesome.

My cousin is madly in love with his first wife, yet he never says no to casual sex. And he has the cheek to tell me not to fuck all the women I fancy. He said that because I paid a good deal of attention to a woman with a ponytail and a great big ass. Oh, the things I could have done to her… Arabs usually like women with plump breasts and a nice big bottom. We don’t consider them overweight, especially because we also like them to have a slender waist and shapely legs.

“Nothing else for me, thank you,” I reply, and I can feel my stupid cousin kick my leg under the table.

“We have lovely pancakes,” she teases, and I know she is not really talking about pancakes at all.

Actually I quite like these girls. They don’t hesitate much; they make their offers quite fast. My eyes run all over her, and I can see Amir grinning next to her. The blonde is staring right next to me now.

All right. So you want to hook up.

“Okay, tell me about those pancakes,” I say and I glance at her narrow hips.

Amir immediately understands that the game has started. He leans back in the huge, black armchair and covers his smile with his cup. The blonde pats down her dress and fiddles with her hair.

I’d like to bury my fist in that hair too.

“It’s lovely with maple syrup.” She licks her lips.

Ah, so cheap!

I can’t get in the mood, even though I’m already rock hard. I’d like to fuck, but not this girl. She can sense the mood chilling, so she tries to save the day.

“I’ll get you some, and if you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns and goes back to the bar. She whispers something to a woman standing there. She is short, with pixie-cut, black hair, and now she is staring at us, grinning. I’m sure she is going to make a move too. This is one of the reasons I hate America. I don’t even need to negotiate. Trade and business are a crucial part of my life. We have oil fields in Saudi Arabia, so we have to deal with this so-called developed world. They call us the third world, or the developing world, and what would you expect of a third-world country? Backward lifestyle, low standard of living. All kinds of negative things. But this so-called third world is not exactly as those damned Americans and Europeans imagine. Saudi Arabia is one of the richest countries in the world. Oil production started in 1946, and that brought along a lot of improvements. Luxury replaced our desert nomad lifestyle. Members of the royal family (including me) earn money from every inch of the land. Because every inch of the land hides something we can sell. In our country all land-related business adds to our vast wealth. In fact, we are so wealthy that according to the king the country has more money than it can spend. Honestly, has any American or European country ever made a similar announcement? No way! The United States and the EU. They lend money to member states, they influence one another’s economy, then they have the audacity to call us the third world. I think we are the first. It’s evident even from the way these women target us.

“Are you going to fuck her?”

Amir leans forward to ask the question and for a moment I don’t even know who he means. I glance toward the bar and I see those giggling girls loading pancakes on some plates.

“Ibrahim is not here. He flew to Europe. I can’t do it without him.”

Amir cocks his brow. He knows I really take this seriously. Ibrahim is my personal physician. He analyzes my blood sample every month and he also examines me down there regularly. He also has another important task: he examines the women I am about to fuck. I never use condoms, so the women must be clean. Pure as snow. This is another reason why I don’t go into casual sex with just anybody. I have the whores examined, I pay them and I enjoy them. I don’t care whether they enjoy me or not. These blondes live in a dream world if they think they can seduce the likes of me.

“You could just use a condom for a change,” my cousin reproaches me.

I have tried that in the past and I regretted it. It felt like something was taken away from me. Like my right to possess the woman was taken from me somehow. Women are only good for one thing in my opinion: to satisfy me. And I like my satisfaction without rubber.

Of course the whores don’t care either way. They would do anything for money, but I am more responsible than that.

A wife would be different, of course! She is the support of her husband, just like Islam is the support of men. She must be respected, appreciated and treated well. The world has a mistaken idea about this. Foreigners imagine that our religion orders us to oppress and humiliate women, but it’s not true. The Koran tells men to delight their wives and provide for them. Our relationship with women from other cultures is a different matter, though. These bitches are not my wives, so I will not give them anything other than money. Perhaps I’m punishing them. Sometimes I can feel their desire. They want me, but I leave them unsatisfied on purpose. Sexual satisfaction is also a kind of gift, and I am not giving myself to any lowly American bitch.

Both girls start walking toward us; they glance at each other trying to hide their smiles. They are around twenty-five, I think, but I’ve given up trying to estimate women’s age. Once I slept with a hot chick in Brazil; she had an amazingly perfect body, and later I found out she was forty-four. I was shocked, but somehow it felt right nonetheless. It meant that women of all ages are good for a fuck.

The blonde suddenly looks at me and I go hard down below.

Okay, so you can stare.

Her skirt is dangerously tight on her narrow hips; the dress rides higher with every step. She isn’t bothered, and she doesn’t even try to adjust it. She has shapely thighs and pretty blue eyes. Other than that she is nothing special. Not even her blonde hair excites me the way it usually does. The other girl is shorter and a lot shyer. These shy ones are usually hell in the sack. I imagine running my fingers through her short, black hair, but it does nothing for me.

Amir stares at me in silent protest. He doesn’t want the dark-haired one. She is of average build, and I fancy her body more than the blonde’s, but my cousin prefers girlishly thin women. If he could, I think he would swap their parts around and put the blonde’s head on the dark one’s body. He is a bit disappointed because he knows that the choice is mine. He is older, but I am of higher status, as he is royal only on his mother’s side. As I said, maternal lineage doesn’t count for much in my country.

The blonde puts the plates on the table without taking her eyes off me. I like her brazen manner. It’s cheap, but she will be amusing. The dark-haired one sets the syrup in front of us and gazes at Amir with her doleful eyes. I feel a strong desire for her because of those eyes. It’s decision time.

“How much is this lovely dessert?” I ask, and I only hope they get my drift.

They look at each other and the blonde laughs out loud. She has beautiful teeth, but her laugh is uncouth. Then suddenly she stares at me seriously.

“It’s for free, sir. Consider it a favor.”

I like her calling me sir and showing us respect. I show her none. I look at Amir and I can see that he is not interested in anything but getting laid. He has a suite in the Hilton hotel nearby, and so do I. That’s the most convenient. The receptionists are discreet, and they get anything we want. Once I wanted three girls, but Amir was nowhere to be found, so I made my request personally at the reception. The receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid. An hour later three girls arrived to attend to my every need. I like to show my gratitude for such things. When I checked out I gave the receptionist a set of car keys. It was an A8, and he was so happy he nearly jumped for joy. All the receptionists have been extra attentive to the royal family ever since.

“Well, ladies, we have some very special needs, you know.”

Amir sounds threatening—he almost announces that he is a perv. And I would say he is indeed. He loves his wives, but he is much more aggressive with prostitutes than I am. He once paid for a twelve-year-old girl in Russia. That made me sick. No wonder he is into skinny women. Yet his wives seem normal, and I’m sure they have no idea about their husband’s craziness. Then again, they couldn’t do anything about it even if they knew.

“Will you taste it?”

The blonde doesn’t even look at Amir. She teases me. I sure as hell won’t taste this syrupy American thing, but I will taste her instead. Now I really want to know whether she is so subservient in bed.

I stand up and try to fold my shirt back into my trousers. I put on my jacket; she glances at my cock. She wants to see how turned on I am.

Don’t worry, sweetheart, I will be hard. Hard enough to make you scream!

I pull out my wallet. The dark-haired girl and my cousin are both watching me. I look at him as if asking, “Well, aren’t you coming?” He seems embarrassed when he gets up and starts adjusting his trousers.

So he is turned on too. Yes. We are of the same blood after all.

He is stroking his strong stubble, dreading the chance that I will cancel this party. I enjoy his worry but I don’t want to make it last too long. I put thirty dollars on the table, and then I take out another wad of hundred-dollar bills. I’m not showing off, as it’s not a lot of money; I just want to make sure they understand that cash is involved in the business if all goes well. I don’t like to talk about it, and I hate these small denomination bills, but this is America. The blonde looks at the money and her hand twitches a bit, but she doesn’t reach out.

Such a whore. She will do everything to get that cash.

Amir looks at the dark-haired one as if saying, “You will get just as much if you’re good enough.” The girl chews her bottom lip and grins.

“We work until eight,” she tells my cousin, and the blonde nods in agreement.

“Okay, then let’s make it nine o’clock.”

Amir immediately relaxes when he hears me say this.  Now he can be sure he will get the girl, although I’m sure he wouldn’t have even noticed her if she hadn’t made a move on him. He never misses a chance, and neither do I, usually.

I take out a Hilton business card and I take the pen from the girl. Her fingers caress my hand and I notice that she gasps.

I will eat her alive.

I write our names on the back of the card, and then I return the pen and give her the card too. She tries to read it for a while, then blinks at me.

“We will be there, Jamal.”

She responds like an Arabian woman, not like an American. Her obedience makes me expect quite a pleasurable night.

“My name is Sarah, and this is Monica,” she says with a mysterious smile.

I feel like saying I don’t give a fuck, but I mind my manners. Amir is probably thinking the same, and he nearly laughs out loud. He walks up to the girls and answers condescendingly, “Dear Sarah and Monica,” he pauses and looks them up and down, “lateness will not be excused. Just so you know.”

I don’t understand why he wants to show off. The girls already know he is of high status. When we travel to other continents we wear suits, not long, traditional robes, but we look like nobles nonetheless.

Back home we are also allowed European clothes, but our women are not. As soon as a girl has her first period, she must start covering her face with a veil. Young women can only go unveiled in front of their brothers and fathers. I have two younger sisters, a younger brother, an older brother and an older sister. I remember my mother keeping my sisters’ first period a secret as long as she could, to postpone the time her daughters must start dressing in grown women’s restrictive garments. Girls often have their fates decided while they’re still very young. In some families, marriages are decided almost at birth. Yet it is another misconception that young people are forced into marriage by their parents. This used to be true, but not anymore. Mothers always make sure their daughters are happy with the suitor chosen for them. Romantic love doesn’t have to be involved; mutual respect is enough. Muslim women appreciate being respected. Love is just a fleeting emotion, but respect and appreciation are not. My sisters had their suitors chosen very early on; the question was just the timing of them leaving the nest. Of course it also applies the other way around. I know the girls chosen as my future wives, I just don’t want to marry them yet. Perhaps it’s considered despicable, but marriages within the family are common. My family has a firm hold over our country by uniting distant relatives in wedlock.

“Okay, we’ll have to go now.” Amir is standing next to me, nodding in agreement. He is eying up the dark-haired girl. His imagination is running wild. I look at “Sarah,” and I give her the facts just so she knows: “We will do it in pairs. You will be with me. Understand? And you will get three thousand dollars. That’s the price.”

She seems shocked at first, then she nods. She blushes, and I’m thinking of other situations when I could make her blush. I like these games. She pretends to be my “femme fatale,” then she ends up as shy as a virgin.

I sigh at the thought of virgins. I go weak at the knees when I think of them. I love purity, and there is nothing purer than a virgin. Of course there are no such women in Europe or the USA. Virgins here are practically still children. But back home… I remember that my future wives are all virgin brides, waiting patiently for me.

Amir walks past me, signaling our departure, but I want to enjoy a few more moments of the sight of the blushing blonde. Her blue eyes sparkle as she watches me. She is embarrassed, but she is willing. I turn and silently follow Amir.

As we step outside my cousin reproaches me.

“Why didn’t you give me the blonde? She has an awesome body!”

“Amir, I don’t understand why you enjoy fucking these skinny ones.”

“Same reason why you like curves.”

I can’t say I only like curvy women, but as a matter of fact I prefer them to fragile ones. To put it bluntly, when I slap an ass, I want it to jiggle and wiggle. This blonde’s ass won’t, that’s for sure.

“Besides, you’ve just told me off about sleeping around, and now wouldn’t let me pass this chance up.”

“Don’t even try to pretend you wanted to pass it up. You can fuck blondie in the ass, so don’t tell me it’s so bad.”

I say nothing, although I know what I want to tell him. I don’t feel like fucking blondie at all. Maybe she could give me a blow job, or not even that, it’s still four hours to go. It’s five p.m. now. Okay, I must admit, if she gives me that innocent look again, she will turn me on.

Our Mercedes is parked on the street. We get in. Back home I usually go everywhere by huge, chauffeur-driven cars, but when I’m abroad, I don’t. My father was quite upset about it and told me that “a prince should not drive.” But what’s the use of luxury cars if I can’t even drive them? The personalized F800 model was custom-made for me. I keep one in Europe and one in America. Both have gold exterior and cream-and-brown interior. By gold exterior I don’t mean the color, I mean the actual precious metal. It is invaluable; I would never leave it on the streets unguarded. The steering wheel is like an F-1 race car’s. I would be an idiot not to drive it.

Amir seems irritable.

“Why are you so casual here? In Riyadh your car is too big for the parking lot, and here you spend your cash on hatchback luxury.”

“You know me. I like curves.”

Amir laughs. For the next few hours we won’t be talking about anything but sex. Sex has ruled our lives ever since we had our first opportunity. I don’t know about my cousin’s first time, but I distinctly remember how I lost my virginity.

My father walked into the men’s quarters in our palace in Riyadh and told me to go to the women’s quarters because someone was waiting for me. I was fifteen and I knew exactly what would happen. Male family members had been teasingly educating me for years, telling me how I should act rough and dominant with women. They told me stories about tugging their hair and injuring their vaginas during sex. I was disgusted to hear all that because I dearly loved my sisters. The relationship between brothers and sisters is different in our society; even more so in the royal family. I was treated as a god, but my sisters were treated like normal kids. At first I didn’t understand this, but after my first sexual experience I realized what male superiority truly meant. I never mistreated my sisters though. But the way I treat foreign women…

My sister Maysa is just two years younger than me, and my other sister, Nasire, is five years my junior. They are married to distant cousins and have children of their own. Fatima, my eldest sister is ten years older than me; I was never really close to her. By the time I was six she flew the nest and moved to Jeddah. I see her once a year if I take part in the pilgrimage, because we usually visit her family then.

So as I was saying, two girls were waiting for me in a secluded room that day. I still remember the scent of roses on their skin. Heavy gold brocade curtains blocked out the light. The air conditioner worked hard to combat the heat outside. The room was cool, which made the girls’ nipples pucker. Both were so skinny I actually worried I would break them. They had absolutely no body hair, and immediately asked me what I wanted. I think this experience decided my preference for average-built women over model-thin bodies. They were around twenty years old and well experienced. They fell upon me like lionesses upon their prey. I later found out they were women of my father’s harem, so I feel disgusted whenever I remember the situation. It’s unsavory to fuck the same women my father had fucked. I didn’t visit them again.

I distinctly remember the advice my older brother Fawaz gave me. He was six years older than me and much more experienced. He plonked me down in front of the TV a few times to watch porn, and that was how I learned what to do with the female anatomy. We even consider the anus available for sex, although the Koran explicitly states that all parts of the body must only be used according to their function. Perversion is unacceptable; but then again, who is to decide what is function and what is perversion?

Arabs can find excuses for such things.

I fucked those girls in the ass when I lost my virginity, and I’ve loved anal sex ever since. I think that’s my only perversion. Of course, sometimes I am a bit too rough, but why should I be ashamed of that? Well, I’m not.

Those two bitches moaned so much under the weight of my fifteen years that I considered myself a sex god. And why would I have thought otherwise? My father raised me and my brothers to know we could do absolutely anything. And then, at age fifteen, I got just the right feedback.

We park the car in front of the hotel; the valet eagerly runs up to us to get the keys. I let him ease the car in a parking space. He doesn’t often get the chance to sit in such a vehicle. We walk into the lobby and I can feel the curious eyes of women on me. It’s like the animal kingdom. Females don’t hesitate to pick the strongest male and mate with him. America is like the grasslands, full of females wanting to mate.

It makes me sick. And horny!

Amir rouses me from my musings. “Shall we have a coffee in the bar?”

“Wasn’t the one you had bad enough?”

New York is a fine place, but there is nothing better than proper Arabic coffee. A lot of other Arabic things are also unbeatable, but of course the civilized West wouldn’t know about that…

“Think of something to do. It’s still a long time till nine p.m.”

I turn to Amir. He really looks painfully impatient.

No way! Is he really so much into that plain girl?

His huge, sleepy eyes grow wide as he fiddles with his bristly hair. He is only an inch or two shorter than me, but quite heavy-set. He isn’t fat as such, but he moves like an old bear. His steps are slow and long, yet he moves fast, which is somehow odd. His entire appearance is a bit odd. His hands and feet are slender, but his arms and thighs are quite thick and strong. He is not particularly sporty.

Amir looks like his father. I look like my father too, but my father is related to Amir’s mother, so I don’t look like my cousin at all. I take after my father in more than just my appearance… I used to despair of my height and my dark olive skin, but as I got to know the world outside Saudi-Arabia I realized that women find me exotically attractive. I wanted to look different from people back home, but unfortunately I wasn’t a blonde Prince Charming. But I am special in Europe and America. When I was around twenty I realized that you could tell a lot about someone just by looking at them. Even me. Rich or poor, prudish or open-minded… I am rich, not prudish in the least, and I am open to everything… in certain matters.

“Well, you could get ready,” I snap. “Your breath stinks of coffee, and you should give your dick a good scrub before you stuff it in a woman’s mouth too.”

“Why should I make an effort for her?!”

That’s so typical of Amir. I don’t treat women kindly, but at least I show enough respect to clean myself up for them. A woman’s cleanliness and scent are very important to me and I believe she deserves at least as much in return. I don’t aim to satisfy them, but this is the least I can give. And lots of money, of course. Nothing more though. Cleanliness is very highly valued in our society. There are strict rules regarding personal hygiene, and there is much more to it than a light sprinkle of perfume. I heard people say “filthy Arabs,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Of course there might be Muslim countries where tourists would find “filthy” people, but not in my country. My people are never filthy. At least not as far as the body is concerned. The mind is a different issue, but our personal hygiene is immaculate. The Koran even instructs us on hair- and nail care. An Arabic man mustn’t grow his nails long, his facial hair must be neat, and trimming underarm and pubic hair is highly recommended.

Men like me don’t aim to please the women they use. Of course I’m not saying I have never satisfied a woman, but I don’t care whether I hurt her or please her while I use her. I was gentle with a woman only once. I attended to her every need and we had truly earth-shattering sex. She loved it. But I don’t want to please paid women; it’s a principle I have. Let the money please them. It’s just business, no more.

Amir doesn’t wait for my reply. He heads to the bar while I walk to the elevator. After a few steps I stop and wait for him to realize I’m not following him. He stops after fifteen meters, turns his huge body and asks me: “What’s up? Aren’t you coming?”

A woman in a red dress saunters past. I stare at her ass. Amir’s face tells me all I need to know about the front view. He grins at her, nods and turns. He is hurrying to the bar now to chat her up. I think he will have a rocking threesome tonight… and I am not even in the mood for my blonde.

Chapter 2.

I need some air, so I open the window in my room. It’s the beginning of October, the air is fresh and crisp. This is the one thing I like about foreign countries. In the kingdom it’s almost always terribly hot, you can barely breathe, let alone open your windows. Air conditioning is a must in every building, all day, every day. That’s the desert for you. Nights are cooler, but I can tell you this: in the Arabian Peninsula we are ruled by sand.

I remember Amir’s remark about the pilgrimage, so I get my phone and I’m about to dial my father. I want to tell him well in advance to plan his journey without me. He always goes on pilgrimage with his sons, all of them if possible. Not that he wants his sons by different wives to be best friends, but he considers this his fatherly duty. Cousins usually come along too, which gets rather uncomfortable. Everyone wants the latest gossip about everyone else. We must steer clear of all worldly distractions during Hajj, no sex and no alcohol, so there is really nothing else to do but pray and chat.

I put down my phone and gather my strength.

The usual fruit basket was waiting for me, so I decide to tip the staff generously when I leave. I nibble on a date, then I eat a few more.

The flavor of home!

There are several other things especially for me in the living room. A red and blue Persian rug is rolled up next to the sofa in case I wish to pray.

Of course I do.

A Koran is placed in the middle of the table, but I carry mine with me everywhere I go. I appreciate these brownnosing little favors.

I take off my suit and take a quick shower. I like the skill of these Americans in adapting to our requirements. They provided Bvlgari cosmetics instead of Hilton ones, and there are tons of clean towels too.

Okay… I’m rich, but why so many towels, when I have only one ass to wipe?

I lather the soap on my body and wash my hair too. Luckily, I’m less wiry-haired than Amir. My body hair and beard are strong, but women seem to like it. Whenever I shower before sex I wonder what Western women think of my circumcision.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since an American whore grabbed my dick and told me she wanted nothing more than to see a circumcised cock. So I showed her mine.

It’s nothing special really, just that my foreskin had been removed. Ignorant people used to think of this tradition as something brutal and cruel, but that’s not true. You don’t feel a thing when it is done, and there are certain advantages. I wasn’t circumcised in infancy, but later, when I was seven. This meant that I was rewarded with special gifts. I got my very first gold Rolex, but I only started wearing it later. At the time I appreciated the other gifts more: toys and some jewelry. The actual circumcision didn’t hurt, as the area was anaesthetized. It was over before I realized what was going on. My older brother was also circumcised at age seven, but my younger brother’s procedure was done in infancy. The advantages are very distinct: a circumcised penis is much easier to keep clean, and sex is better too. This is not only an advantage for me; I don’t suffer from premature ejaculation, I can go all night if I want to. When I talked about it with my twenty-year-old brother, Hakim, he just laughed and said, “Mine was messed up then.”

Circumcision signifies our appreciation of cleanliness, as it is connected to personal hygiene. There is a misconception that our people circumcise girls too. Islam does not command this at all. There are native tribes who do it, but mainly in African countries. I prefer intact genitalia on women; in fact, I insist on this. Not for her enjoyment, but for my enjoyment in fucking women as nature intended, not only a hole. In my opinion clitoral mutilation takes something away from a woman, and not only physically but mentally too. I have no idea why anyone would want that. Of course I understand the need to guard her chastity, which is a religious obligation for us, but I believe there are better ways to do it. Neither my mother, nor my father considered female circumcision necessary for their daughters. They firmly refused; in fact, this is not an issue in the royal family at all. Learned, enlightened people recognize the downside of their culture by gaining insight into other cultures.

Yes. The way we treat women might be a downside to our culture. But I can’t say it concerns me.

So this little blonde, Sarah—or whatever her name is—will soon see an Arab penis.

I towel myself dry and brush my teeth. I glance at my full lips and I grin, because I know women find my mouth attractive. Nearly all of them want to kiss me, but I won’t let them. My male relatives have quite strong features: strong stubble, thick brows, full lips.

I brush my hair and put on fresh clothes. I choose jeans, which doesn’t happen very often, but I don’t feel like wearing a suit for a woman I don’t even want too much. I use moisturizer on my face and tidy my strong eyebrows. I like what I see in the mirror. I’ve always been grateful to my father for passing on his best genes to me. Of course it’s not all down to genetics; I look after myself too. I like experimenting; sometimes I shave my head, sometimes I let my hair grow to my shoulders. Right now I need a haircut but I didn’t get one before I traveled. I occasionally shave my face smooth too, but not often. I like my stubble and so do women. Those waxed, hairless male models totally disgust me. Appalling! Arab men would never deny their masculinity, that’s why we usually have beards. Our men only shave their underarms and their private parts.

I take very good care of my body. I’m lucky enough to be really tall; most men in my family are around 190 cm{3} in height. I’m even taller. But height is not enough reason for vanity; sports also play a major role in my life. I like water sports best, but that’s not really an option in Riyadh, so I adopted something truly American: I have a treadmill in my gym and I also employ a personal trainer.

My eyes are the greatest gift I got from my father. My brothers have dark eyes, like our mother, but I take after my father and have greenish hazel eyes; the border of my iris is almost yellow. Truly shiny eyes. I have noticed that most people who glance at me end up staring into my eyes for a long time. Or look away and look back again. Of course I mean women. When we were younger Amir once jokingly told me at a reception that he would gouge my eyes out. He was upset about the difference in our looks, although this never damaged his self-confidence. Nothing would. Arab men practically worship themselves; nothing can ruin their self-confidence, especially not something as superficial as looks. The Koran declares that men were created to dominate.

So let’s dominate that blonde tonight.

I dab on some perfume and put on the TV. The hotel staff scores another brownie point as it’s set to Al-Jazeera. I watch the news for a little while, and I’m reminded of the approaching date of the pilgrimage. I remember my duty and get my phone, which I throw on the bed.

I dial my father. It rings. It’s seven p.m. in New York, but two a.m. in Riyadh. I don’t mind, my father never resents me for such calls. I get very irritated whenever I receive late night or early morning calls. I differ from the head of my family in this matter.

It rings for a while, I’m just about to hang up when he picks up.

“Peace be upon you, son,” he says sarcastically, but I return the greeting instinctively.

“Aleikum salam, Father.”

I hear him sigh, so I wait for him to fully wake up. I glance at my watch; my girl will be here in two hours.

“Don’t even start. I hope you’re not calling to say you wouldn’t make it home in time for the pilgrimage. Hajj is starting soon and you must come back.”

I feel ashamed for a moment; he makes it sound like I’m a bad Muslim. There are five pillars of Islam, which are similar to the Ten Commandments of Judaism and Christianity. One of these pillars (the fifth) is the pilgrimage to Mecca called Hajj. Our religion was founded there, which makes Mecca a holy city for all Muslims. Hajj is a pillar that doesn’t have to be practiced regularly. We don’t need to go every year; once in a lifetime is enough. But of course, it’s in the best interest of Muslims to take part as often as they can. The second pillar, the Salat is the recital of the five daily prayers. A Muslim must observe this duty on a daily basis. At least he must try. Shops close at prayer times and believers go to the mosques or pray wherever they are. This is how it works in all of Saudi Arabia. Shops close even the modern malls for the twenty or thirty minutes of prayer time. There are exceptions though: the Shiite minority observes three daily prayers, but luckily there is no Shiite minority in the kingdom. I think there are certain masses Christians are supposed to attend regularly. We just have a bit more.

The first and foremost pillar is the Shahada, or declaration of faith. As the name shows, this means our belief in one God and the Prophet. We don’t recognize any other god but Allah, and we consider the Prophet Muhammad his messenger.

The third pillar has its equivalent in the Christian world: people make donations to the Church. We call this Zakat. All Muslims donate a certain percentage of their income to charity. Of course there is a difference between people’s obligations based on their wealth. A rich Muslim will not pay the same amount as a poor Muslim, and the Koran even specifies that anyone who has difficulties in providing for his family is exempt from the duty of Zakat payment.

The fourth pillar is what non-Muslims know as Ramadan. This is the fast, or Sawm. There are three kinds of Sawm, and the Ramadan fast is the most important, because this is a religious ritual that lasts through the month of Ramadan, from sunrise to sunset. Eating, drinking and sex are forbidden during this time, but as soon as the sun sets, everything is allowed. This pillar is not a day-to-day duty, but it is observed for an entire month each year. Ramadan is a hard challenge, but Muslims kind of like it, because it represents purification, although it requires a lot of willpower.

So as I was saying, Hajj is very important for Muslims. My father raised us with strict religious values. He never demanded anything from me but unshakeable faith. And I do have that.

My eyes instinctively wander to the Koran and I decide to pray as soon as I hang up.

A prayer before sex.

“I am really sorry, Father, but I can’t. Please take someone on my behalf to do my sacrifice.”

He says nothing but I hear him sigh. I think he is asking Allah to forgive me already.

“You said you would finish this business in New York on time.”

“I did, but I have to fly to Europe.”

I came to America to negotiate an oil deal with the state. I arrived a month ago and I spent about twenty days in business meetings. Of course these were polite little meetings where I tried to sweet-talk the USA into buying Saudi oil at the best price. My family owns several oil fields; I was finding buyers for the oil produced at Khurais this time. It was an important issue because this field will most probably yield 27 billion gallons’ worth of oil. We closed the deal. New oil wells can lower the price, so it was not difficult to convince the Americans.

The king decided on the spur of the moment to start work on this oil field. The production takes place approximately a hundred and twenty kilometers from Riyadh, in the middle of the desert. Tunnels were dug from the Persian Gulf to the wells, so black gold (oil) can be recovered from the sea too. In the Middle East we meticulously manage the oil business, so I don’t understand why other countries keep repeating that there is an oil shortage. There isn’t! Not yet. I understand the business side of things, but my question is: if my country lowers oil prices due to the abundant supply available, why doesn’t the market follow a positive trend? Saudi Arabia has no interest in halting oil production, no matter what each barrel costs. Like it or not, our Minister of Oil Industry announced this to the West.

The main thing is, we closed the deal at last.

“I didn’t tell you to go to any business meeting in Europe. What are you doing there?”

Now comes the difficult part. My father always follows strict rules. He has a schedule almost a year ahead. He knows who he will deal with and which of his sons will represent him. My family is directly related to the king and we are wealthy beyond measure. I’ve had the title “Prince” attached to my name ever since I was born; even my mother called me “Prince Jamal” sometimes when she patted my head. But there are quite a few princes and princesses in my country. Every legitimate, royal offspring gets the title and a place in the line of succession. As we marry more than one wife and have large families, you can see why there are over seven thousand princes and princesses in Saudi Arabia. And the royal family counts over thirty thousand members. The family name indicates royal lineage, and being a royal comes with certain privileges. Most importantly: royal name, royal position. And royal salary of course. This gives rise to animosity sometimes, because the best positions are given to those with the title, not those best qualified.

“I was approached by a European company.”

“You mean they are begging for a sponsorship deal?”

Precisely. A car factory approached me from Central Europe, Hungary, to ask me for an investment. I talked to the brand management in Germany and they encouraged me. I’m not hoping for huge profit, but I’m bored of the oil business. Whatever happens I will be filthy rich, so it’s not like I’m taking any risks.

“Where are you going?” He sounds angry but he doesn’t want to reprimand me. He knows I’m different from his other sons.

“To Hungary.”

I can hardly pronounce it. I realize that I have no idea where it is. I don’t know the culture, the people, anything.… Really, what am I doing there?

My father laughs out loud.

“Well, you could have told me. I envy you.” I’m starting to believe that this country must be beautiful and precious, but then he clicks his tongue. “They have the most beautiful women in the world.”

Now I’m grinning too. I hope I will be like my father when I am that age. He is fifty-seven, but he is youthful and good-looking. He is as tall as his sons and has a flat stomach even at his age. Young women bat their eyelashes at him at every turn. He was nineteen and my mother was seventeen when they got married. A year later my sister Fatima was born, and the family started growing quickly. My generation has a bit more say on the future. We can decide when to marry and we have a say in who we want to marry too. I am in no rush to wed, but I don’t object to the brides chosen for me.

“How do you know? Have you been there?”

“It was a long time ago, son. A very long time ago. But I can assure you that I have the nicest memories.”

Nice memories can mean a lot of things, even children. Illegitimate ones of course. Only children born in wedlock are considered legitimate. My father has a few children by his mistresses, but he doesn’t show any fatherly affection for them. He provides for them financially, but nothing more.

“Amir will be coming with me. Ibrahim has flown ahead and taken care of the formalities.”

“Well done, son, you’re smart. You will need Ibrahim in that country.”

Well, I should be careful with Hungarian women then.

“Is Mother okay?” I ask, because my father would never talk about her unless I ask.

My mother is his first and favorite wife, but this doesn’t mean she plays an important role in his life. I have similar feelings concerning women, but still, I can’t imagine dismissing a woman so easily if she is my lawful wife who lives under my roof. I’m not talking about sex, that’s a different matter. But I will respect the mother of my children. Or at least the mother of my sons.

“Of course she is fine. She misses you, so next time, if you call at a more reasonable time, you can ring her too.”

“All right. I will call her from Europe.”

“You haven’t told me anything about the Hungarian business, he adds when I’m thinking about hanging up.

“A car part manufacturer asked me for investment.”

“Do you want to sponsor them?”

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

He thinks it over, then replies reproachfully. “Why are you wasting your time? You are considering investments which might never make a profit, instead of concentrating on oil.”

“No, this is not so simple. This company is a sound investment, and their stocks are doing really well. The oil business can practically manage itself.”

My father knows very well that I’m right so he doesn’t argue. He is starting to accept the facts. I’m interested in a few other things too, not just oil and Saudi Arabia.

He asks me about Amir, and he promises to take people to the pilgrimage on our behalf. I breathe a sigh of relief and glance at the Koran.

There is a knock on the door, so I say goodbye and hang up. I open the door. It’s Amir and the woman in the red dress. His thick fingers hold on to her waist and a cheeky grin is plastered all over his face. He looks like a cat who caught something and brought it to its owner to show off.

“What is it?” I ask irritably. I am fed up with him for the day. He talks me into chatting up the blonde. It’s eight o’clock, she will be here soon.

“I got some lovely company to go with Monica.”

He is speaking Arabic, and the woman is smiling broadly. She probably knows what we are talking about, but she doesn’t look embarrassed. I think she might be a professional, but I’m not about to mention that to Amir.

“Enjoy yourself but remember, you are flying to Europe with me tomorrow. So pack your bags too.”

Amir pulls a disappointed face. He probably resents me for making him miss the pilgrimage. He doesn’t complain, just makes a snide remark.

“This is really the best time to tell me about it. Where are we going?”

“To Hungary.”

The woman in the red dress takes a step forward. Perhaps she wants to come in. She might be thinking about a threesome.

Yes, honey, a threesome indeed, but not with me.

I lean towards her; she takes a step back.

“Hungary? Where the fuck is that?”

“You will find out tomorrow, Amir.”

I bang the door shut in his face. He doesn’t mind. I can hear the girl as she walks away giggling. They go to Amir’s suite. I realize that I didn’t tell the reception desk about the two “ladies” we are expecting, so I give them a call.

It’s Steve, my favorite receptionist. He never bats an eyelid no matter what, and arranges anything for me, be it women or anything else. The other idiots hum and grin conspiratorially, like we are friends or something. Why can’t they understand that sex is just simple business? The only business deal I would make with women.

“How can I help you Mr. Sudairi?”

My name sounds funny with his American accent. Servants back home call us by first name, but they add “Prince.” I don’t mention it. After all, I don’t own the world… just about half of it.

“Two women will be arriving at nine. Please direct the dark-haired one to my brother’s suite, the blonde one to mine,” I explain as if it was embarrassing to know their names.

I always call Amir my brother in front of strangers. Him and all my cousins.

“What are the ladies’ names? I need to register them on the visitors’ list.”

I nearly tell him, but that would really be embarrassing. Who cares about the names of two bitches?

“Believe me, Steve, you don’t have to register them.”

He sighs and quietly says, “I understand.” He adds that it is for my protection he wanted their details, so that they wouldn’t rob me or anything.

I don’t reply. I know they are coming to fuck, not to steal. They wouldn’t be that stupid. They will earn good money, excellent money in fact. I think I am a generous customer in every transaction anywhere in the world. This includes prozzies. These girls are not professionals, but I’m paying for the blonde’s body anyway. For her mouth, to be more precise. My stomach tightens at the thought that Ibrahim won’t examine her first.

Shit, I hope there are condoms in this suite somewhere, just to be on the safe side.

I open the dresser next to the king-size bed and yes, the drawer is full of condoms. I hadn’t noticed that. Good heavens, how much should I tip Steve?

Meanwhile Steve sends champagne and a small fruit basket to the room. The champagne scores no brownie point, as Muslims don’t drink alcohol. I start stuffing myself with grapes and I realize I have missed dinner. I always forget about food when I am abroad. There are no tasty falafels here like in Saudi Arabia. Some eateries make decent stuff, almost like the flavors back home, but as I have already said, I hate everything American.

All right…

Except dollars.

The kingdom has friendly ties with the USA, but I would call it mutual interest rather than friendship. Mutual support for power. In my opinion a Muslim state, such as Saudi Arabia only recognizes other Muslim states as friends. Business is a different matter. America only sees profit in Muslim countries. I mean oil-rich countries; Saudi Arabia has plenty of oil indeed, and we want to sell it. It’s that simple. And there is another reason for this cooperation: Iran. Iran is a Shiite state, and this means heavily critical views on Sunni Saudi Arabia. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It’s that simple.

I sit down to eat fruit and fiddle with my phone to check my e-mails and stock-market news. I see the weather forecast first, so I get bored quickly. Weather forecast in Saudi Arabia? Hot of course, what else? Okay, it’s only 35 degrees Celsius now, not 40. That is considered mild, as we often have 45–48 degrees Celsius in the summer. Even October is hot there. December gets cooler, but even then it is not always the case. Sometimes it’s only 20 degrees, but over 30 is also a possibility. Same goes for January and February. And with March the heat starts again. I mean extreme heat.

I hear an uncertain knock on the door and look at my watch. It’s quarter to nine. I drop the phone and walk to the door. I open it, and my blonde, Sarah, is looking at me with sultry eyes.

Dear Steve, there goes your tip!

How could he forget to tell me she was here before sending her up?

He always tells me if I have visitors, and waits for my permission to send them up.

“Hi!”

She greets me casually, killing any little admiration I had for her in the café, where I appreciated her respectfully formal tone.

What do I want anyway?

I asked her here for sex after all…

“Hi,” I reply, and I feel ashamed of myself for being so American.

I step aside to let her in, and she doesn’t hesitate. She stomps past me, quite literally, her high heels echo on the hard marble floor and I wonder why she is so nervous. She gets to the living room and steps on the carpet. Her heels don’t make a sound now. She is lucky this is a hotel, because I would kick her for stepping on the carpets with her shoes if she was in my home.

She stands with her back to me for a while, giving me time to ogle her ass. Poor girl thinks this will turn me on, but she hasn’t got an ass I’d want to fuck.

She is wearing a figure-hugging, blue dress, which goes well with her hair color, but it’s too short. I don’t like slutty clothes. She is showing off her figure, which she thinks is perfect. I almost laugh out when I think of Americans and how superior they feel. Yet Arab women can make my dick stand by simply walking past in their niqabs and looking at me. This girl shows everything and fails to turn me on. Of course we know very well what’s hiding under niqabs and abayas. An abaya is a floor-length overdress which doesn’t cover the face, hands and feet. There are many variations, but in the kingdom only black, loose ones are allowed. It’s a sort of robe. Women wear colorful abayas in many countries, which is very eye-catching. Some wear tight ones, so really daring ladies can show a bit more of themselves. Not in Saudi Arabia, of course. We only allow variations in the fabric. Abayas are most often made of soft, floaty silk, which feels cool in the heat. The niqab is a veil that covers the face. There is nothing more exciting than a pair of alluring eyes watching a man. It shows so little, yet so much. Our women wear sexy stockings, garters and lace and silk underwear just like Western women, it’s just that they don’t show themselves off to the world. But we know what we know. They apply eye make-up so skillfully that they could make me come simply by kneeling before me, faces veiled, those eyes gazing up at me. An American whore could never do that.

She drops her cheap, fake leather bag and coyly turns to me. She watches me and likes what she sees. She can’t hide her desire and I can hardly hide the lack of mine. She holds my gaze and finally inspires some dirty thoughts.

She doesn’t wait for me to offer her a seat or anything. She walks to the fruit basket, takes a banana, peels it and starts sucking on it.

Shouldn’t have done that. It doesn’t turn me on. Very cheap.

I should get this party started, so I walk to the dresser and take the money I intend to give her. Her eyes light up. And she wants me too, so it’s not a bad deal for her. I will give her a disappointment nonetheless. She probably imagines that I will hold her tight and make love to her, but I have absolutely no such intention.

She walks up to me and bats her eyelashes. She’s got nice eyes. She caresses my arm. The closeness of her skin makes me cringe even through the fabric of my shirt. I step aside and command her strictly.

“Go, take a shower and shave your body.”

She looks a bit surprised, but she doesn’t let her mood deflate. She stands in front of me, flashes her teeth and argues. “I’ve just had a shower, and believe me, I am hairless everywhere.”

Okay, sweetheart.

“Do you see the money on the dresser?” Her eyes dart toward the banknotes, then back to me. She nods. “That’s yours, but not for your pretty face. You do what I say, and I ‘ve told you to go, take a shower and shave your body.”

What the fuck is so difficult to understand?

She seems confused. I’ve heard jokes about blonde women, but I would assume she is not actually stupid, she simply has no idea what to expect. I don’t feel pity for her; I raise my brows and wait for her reaction.

Her superior smile disappears; she turns and hurries to the shower.

That’s right. Time to wake up, honey!

I shout before she closes the door. “Be naked when you come out.”

She doesn’t respond, just bangs the door shut.

What was she expecting? Did she think I would profess my undying love, or start sweet-talking her?

I hear the water running. I imagine her under the shower and for a moment I consider following her. But I eat some more grapes instead and I sit down in the armchair and wait. She finishes quickly. Ten minutes later she opens the door and walks out of the bathroom in black, lacy underwear.

I can’t believe it! How can she be such a stupid bitch? Naked means naked! Is it different in America?

She walks up to me and pushes out her ridiculously narrow hips. She thinks she is irresistibly sexy but she is not. I am getting bored of her games, so I reprimand her.

“Do you remember what I told you before you closed the door?”

“You told me to shower and shave my body.”

She lifts her leg. Does she want to sit on my lap? I shift in the armchair to stop her. She thinks I’m playing.

“I also said something else.”

“You told me to come out naked,” she replies uncertainly. She is starting to recognize her mistakes.

I look at her underwear, indicating that she is not naked at all. She angrily strips off her bra and panties. This is her first reaction that actually turns me on. She is not pretending—she really is irritated and she doesn’t even try to hide it.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

She really is hairless and her pussy is skinny like a little girl’s. Her breasts are perfectly round and huge for her frame. They’re plastic but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m used to surgically enhanced figures. Luxury whores usually go under the knife for a perfect body.

She wiggles her hips again, prompting me. I stare at her for a while, thinking what to do. I could make her lie on her stomach and fuck her ass. Or take her pussy and tug her hair while I fuck her. But no matter what I plan, somehow it doesn’t feel right, it just doesn’t appeal. Her scrawny ass turns me off, and I’m not very interested in her pussy either.

She seems almost perplexed, so I stand up. She is standing in front of me and I look down. She is short without her heels and this is kind of a turn-on. She stares at me with her blue eyes again.

Okay, I’m hard enough now.

She reaches for my shirt to unbutton it, but I grab her hand. She instinctively tilts her chin up to offer her lips for a kiss.

No way! Let’s make this clear.

“I hope you’re not trying to kiss me.”

She stiffens as much as I should down below. She looks really shaken, but that’s none of my business. I didn’t mislead her in the first place. I don’t want to make love; I want a whore to do as I say. I paid in advance so I have no reason to feel bad.

Kissing is the most intimate act. Much more intimate than sex. I think I’ve fucked a lot more women than I’ve kissed. I could never kiss a stranger. I never have. I have kissed Arab women and a Brazilian too, but never an American.

I lean back as far as the armchair allows and I look deep in her eyes. She is beginning to get my drift and she is bitterly disappointed.

Why do I always get stupid bitches?

This is one of the reasons why I like professionals. They want nothing more than their money. Of course all women hope for a miracle deep in their hearts, but these amateur girls are the worst.

“I think you know what to do,” I say quietly because she looks so embarrassed I don’t want to humiliate her any further.

I remember our flight tomorrow, and I know I have to pack, which makes me even more impatient. Her eyes are brimming with tears. That’s just too much.

“Get on your knees.”

She doesn’t obey, perhaps she is still hoping for that miracle. I feel sorry for her for a moment; she really must have fancied me. Then again, most women do. In Europe and America they consider my skin tone and my style exotic; back home my eyes attract them. And my wealth of course... all of them love that.

Okay...

Well, I like what I see too, but why would a woman want to let me know how much she desires me?

I grab her chin. She smiles faintly as I tilt her face up. She thinks I’m going to be gentle, but I just want to get her to understand what I want.

“Listen, baby. You will give me a blow job. Then you dress up, get your money and walk out the door. It’s not difficult. If you’re good, it won’t take ten minutes.”

Her face shows how much I offended her, but what else can I do? I want something. I paid for it. I explained it. What else does she want me to do?

Fucking hell, get on with the blow job you stupid bitch!

As if she could hear my thoughts she obediently gets down on her knees. She unbuttons my jeans and takes out my cock to suck it. I hear her sniffle and I close my eyes so at least I won’t see her.

How stupid can I be? I pay her three thousand dollars and she is weeping while she is sucking my dick!

Her technique is, how shall I say… unsatisfactory. She doesn’t change her rhythm all through. I like it to start gently and end with passionate nibbles. I eventually grab her head to guide her. I keep my eyes closed because I know the sight would instantly turn me off. I am thinking about my flight, but I still manage to come in a few minutes.

She stands up and shyly wipes her mouth. I’m not sure what she is expecting, as I have already told her everything.

Does she expect me to go down on her now, or what? She must be kidding.

I nod toward the money but she just stands there, so I go and get the wad of cash myself. I walk back to her and put three thousand dollars in her hand. She starts crying again.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom now. Be gone by the time I get out!”

I say nothing more because I feel like yelling at her for crying. What the fuck is so bad about earning a pile of money in ten minutes? I haven’t even hurt her!

I see her clothes in the bathroom. I throw them out. I close the door and take a shower. By the time I come out she is gone.

At last!

{1} The pilgrimage to Mecca. This is the fifth pillar of Islam.

{2} This word has several meanings: Islamic law, Islamic religious law, tradition, the Islamic way of life, the godly way of life.

{3} Nearly 6 feet 3 inches