by T. Styles
Selena buckled her jeans and looked out of the window. When she peeped familiar landmarks, she hopped up. Her sculpted buttocks brushed against his lips, on purpose of course, as she tugged the taut string to alert the driver. The bell rang and the bus slowed down as he approached the stop.
A photographer at heart, Rasim grabbed his Fuji disposable camera in preparation to take a flick or two of her physique. Rasim loved photography and when he took a photo you were pulled into it like a 3D experience.
As she waited, Rasim snapped a picture and looked her up and down. Damn them jeans, Rasim thought to himself. Her body was bubbly in the right places and he was thankful.
“You always taking pictures and shit,” she grinned, loving the attention of her paparazzo.
“Maybe I like what I see.”
Blushed, she whispered, “Bye, Rasim.” She waved as if her fingers were playing a piano in the air.
“Later,” he replied leaning back in his seat.
When the bus halted, she grabbed her jacket and tiny pink purse. Rasim stole another glimpse of her round ass and slim waist as she floated toward the back door. When it opened, she washed into the rain and the bus was back on its route again.
At first Rasim pretended he wasn’t going to take a second look but he couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and watched as the rain painted her light blue jeans dark blue, revealing the red panties she was wearing in the process. He snapped a few more pictures for good measure and couldn’t wait until he had them developed to show his boys. When he was done, he stuffed his camera into his book bag and thought about what he’d just done. Finger fucked the cutie.
The Latina mami was on point, no doubt, but there was one complication. The siren was simply too loose pussy for his taste. All of his friends took a ride on the beauty and when they were done, they essentially gave Rasim a transfer. Selena was frankly not the wifey type.
Remembering touching her plushness, he placed his fingers against his nose and inhaled deeply. Yep. At least she was fresh.
Now that the fun was over, it was time to get serious. So he dipped into his pocket and grabbed his crumpled white Kufi. As if it had never left his scalp, he slid it on his head so he wouldn’t disappoint his parents when he got home.
Rasim’s parents were Sunni Muslims and out of respect for his religion, he was persuaded to wear the Kufi to school by his father, whom he worshipped. Since, as far as he knew, the Kufi was not a requirement in their religion, he resented the accessory. Not only that, unlike his father, Rasim was born in America where those who were different were ridiculed. He didn’t want to be Muslim or Pakistani. He wanted to be American more than he wanted to live and the Kufi contradicted that.
After Rasim pulled the cord to stop the bus, he grabbed his book bag and swaggered toward the backdoor and waited. Standing 6-foot 4-inches tall, the scrawny kid’s head almost touched the roof of the bus.
When he glanced down, the old woman who hated on his game earlier observed his Kufi, which suddenly appeared, and frowned. The thin gray mustache she rocked, equal in color to her wig, gave her a hardened expression. “And you got the nerve to wanna showcase your religion now. What a disgrace to your God.” She shook her head lightly back and forth, gripped the oversize brown purse in her lap against her knotty breasts and looked away.
Rasim was a cool kid and he felt sorry for her. He had a knack of sensing what a person felt in their heart as opposed to what they said or did.
Instead of getting angry at the old bird, when the bus stopped, he kissed the woman on the cheek and dipped down the stairs and out the door. He sensed that she was probably a sex-deprived woman who would never come in the company of a man like him again. So for a moment, he restored her youth.
As he stood at the stop outside, he could see the woman grinning and stroking the place he kissed as if she’d just won the lottery.
Mission accomplished.
When the charity was over, Allah seemed to smile down on Rasim because the rain ceased as he hustled down Rhode Island Avenue toward his house.
When he opened the door to his crib, he was about to stroll inside but stopped short when he saw Kamran, his father. He was standing with his back faced him while chanting rak’ah. Kamran was also turned toward Qibla for Salat (prayer). To face Qibla meant to turn in the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca.
Out of respect, Rasim closed the door softly and sat on the damp step to allow him privacy. He tossed his book bag next to him and looked out at the street. The echo of wet tires crawling down the road sounded off like soft music in the background. He loved the city.
His next-door neighbor, Bridget, who was sitting in her rocking chair on the porch, eyed him with disdain. She was a news whore who believed every negative thing she read about Muslim people.
Rasim waved and she jumped up, rolled her eyes and stormed inside. He had no beef with the old woman. In his mind, just like the woman on the bus, she was bitter and desired a more exciting life.
He shook his head, smiled and thought a lot about his own existence. Although he possessed good friends, Donald, Brooklyn and Chance, something was missing and he couldn’t figure out what.
When he heard the door squeak, Rasim looked behind him and saw his father. Kamran inhaled the rain-scented air deeply, walked outside and sat next to his son. Gently, he touched him on his back and asked, “How was your day?”
Remembering Selena, he blushed and nodded, “Good. Very good.”
Kamran considered his son’s guileful grin and recognized it immediately. They were close and talked about everything. The twinkle in his eye was a dead giveaway and he knew something was up. “Let me smell your fingers,” he joked.
Rasim giggled and allowed him access.
His father sniffed and said, “Ah, yes, this girl is fresh.”
Rasim and his father erupted into heavy laughter.
“Yes, father, she is.” He suppressed another chuckle.
Although their relationship was untraditional for some Muslim and Pakistani people, it worked for them. Kamran believed in allowing his son the room to be himself despite practicing the strict doctrine that he lived by as a Sunni Muslim daily. Because of his understanding of his son’s needs in America, their bond was pure and intact.
As they simmered down, both men looked at the busy city zip by before their eyes. “Tell me, son, is this girl the marrying type?” he asked, going deeper.
Rasim exhaled. “No, father. Sadly, she is not. And I don’t think I’ll ever find that one who is.”
“I doubt that very seriously,” he responded. “You are a very handsome young man, Rasim. Why, women would give their first born to be with you.” He chuckled.
“I don’t think it’s them. I think it’s me. I haven’t met anybody who is made for me.”
Kamran’s heart ached because he didn’t want Rasim growing up without experiencing true intimacy. “Son, do not leave this world without knowing real love. It would be life’s greatest shame.”
When Umar Nami, Rasim’s mother, walked outside, the door squeaked. Her body blocked the door from closing and she tucked her fists in her waist and looked down at her men. She knew they shared a bond resembling best friends as opposed to father and son and they often drove her mad. She wasn’t hating and shit. She appreciated their close connection. She truly did. She just wanted to be sure that Kamran taught him the tough lessons to steer Rasim the right way too.
The pink hijab she wore was intended to hide her beauty, thereby keeping her modesty and morality in tact, but it failed drastically. Umar was so stunning that even with most of her face concealed, she was still pulchritudinous.
“What are you doing out here, Kamran?” She lowered her brow. “Smelling Rasim’s fingers again?”
The men burst into laughter once more.
The thing about the Nami family was this; they never took themselves too seriously. They were no different than a Christian family after worship was over. They believed in laughter and
love to keep their family strong and it may not have worked for some but it did for them.
However, there was another reason Kamran strived for such a close fellowship with his son. He didn’t have the benefit of his father when he grew up in Pakistan although he always desired him.
It was Vazir, his twin brother, who stepped up at the age of twelve to take on an active role in Kamran’s life when their parents were murdered by a man who craved their father’s paycheck and pressed a gun to the back of his head. Years later, Vazir married a rich woman and Kamran never saw him again.
“You two are going to give me a blue face,” Umar said shaking her head. “Now go wash up.” She paused. “And get your fingers good, Rasim,” she said looking at her son. “Dinner is almost ready.” She disappeared into the house.
Rasim stood up and helped his father up just as his friends Donald, Brooklyn and Chance were strolling up the block. He met Donald and Chance from his high school but Brooklyn came in his life another way.
The manner in which the teenage friends bopped toward the house closely favored a hip-hop group in a music video. When the four of them linked up, girls flocked just to be in their presence.
“Father, can I go with my friends?” Rasim asked as he looked at him with hopeful eyes.
Kamran looked at the young men, who in his opinion spelled trouble, and said, “Of course, son.” He was a good father who knew in order for a man to grow; he must learn the lessons of the world. Kamran would never stand in Allah’s way when he was in the process of teaching.
Rasim hugged his father, grabbed his book bag and immersed himself into the huddle of friends as if he were pulled into a tornado. They rocked all the way toward the car as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Kamran saw Rasim snatch off his Kufi and stuff it in his pocket. He lowered his head in shame. “Watch over him, Allah. He’s all I got,” Kamran whispered as he walked into the house.
****
The air conditioning was on blast and yet Donald Guzman was dripping with sweat. His ecru colored skin was riddled with both old and new scars as if he walked through a pile of cacti, face first. He always found a reason to fight and never walked away from a battle, yet Rasim looked up to him.
Donald provoked fear in everyone outside of his team. Although young, his name filtered throughout the streets of DC and he was feared by some and hated by others. He was a young boss who already held a hood throne. Donald was also Rasim’s best friend and Rasim wanted to be just like him.
Powerful.
As they drove down the road toward a hotel to meet a business associate, something felt off with the mood so Rasim looked over at Donald. Rasim sat in the passenger seat of Donald’s blue Acura Integra and wondered what demon possessed his best friend in the moment.
Was it the Demon of Desire that had him wanting to fuck any girl who allowed him? Often without protection? Or the Demon of Rage, which always caused him to act on his emotions violently for any reason he deemed necessary?
Whatever afreet held Donald’s soul, Rasim hoped it wouldn’t attack.
“I’m telling ya’ll,” Donald started as he piloted the car, “I’m sick of my folks. Every time I come home, they got the house smelling like old pussy ‘cause they fucking some dirty ass couple in the living room like they can’t go in the back and shit.” He rubbed his forehead toward his hairline, taking some of the wetness with him.
“You already know how they are,” Chance responded as he thumbed through the fifty-dollar bills in his wallet as if they would mutate into Benjamins, “they reliving their youth.”
“Fuck that,” Donald responded as he eyed him through the rearview mirror. “They supposed to be civilized and shit! They supposed to take care of they kids!”
“But you not no kid no more,” Rasim kidded. “You a grown ass nigga.”
Although Donald was angry, Rasim knew where his pain originated. His parents, Alonso and Paulino Guzman, Latinos from Baltimore City, indulged in guilt-free sex for most of his life. From ten-member orgies to public sex exploits, in an effort to bust a nut, they did it all. In fact, his parents met at a swingers party although Paulino came with another man and his father came with another woman. They realized they were more compatible and had been together ever since.
Pregnancy was never for the Guzmanes. In the earlier days, Paulino was good with taking birth control since condoms were out of the question for Alonso. But when cocaine enrolled itself into their lives after awhile she was too horny to take the pill and eventually Donald was born.
When Donald was a week old, the couple played it cool and renounced all erotic activity. That was until Alonso woke up with a hard on one day that couldn’t be satisfied despite the four lovemaking sessions he and Paulino accomplished earlier. It was clear that although they were new parents, his dick had other intentions.
So they dropped the baby off at Paulino’s parents’ house and before long Donald had become a regular fixture in his grandparents’ home. A few packed diaper bags here and a new outfit there were the most Donald got from his parents and his loneliness turned to resentment and stopped abruptly at anger.
“You think I don’t know I’m not a kid no more?” Donald asked Rasim, his eyes twirling around slightly. His demeanor was giving; please say something wrong so I can push your teeth toward the back of your scalp.
Oh, it was the Demon of Rage that chose to visit and unfortunately for Rasim, he was in the front seat.
Rasim didn’t partake in violence. Besides, he was the jokester of the crew. The one his friends called on when they wanted to chuckle their troubles away. A gangster he was not and, as far as he knew, a gangster he would never be.
“Not trying to get you mad, man,” Rasim said flashing the winning smile he was known for. He nudged him softly on the arm. “Chill out and stop tripping.”
Donald took another look at Rasim, blinked a few times and called the demon off. He had beef in the streets but it was never with Rasim. He loved him more than a brother. “Ain’t nobody mad at your bitch ass,” Donald lied.
“You ain’t mad?” Rasim repeated. “Your face so wet you making my dick hard,” he laughed.
Donald shook his head and chuckled at his friend.
On some personal shit, Brooklyn pulled on Donald’s headrest to scoot forward, which caused Donald’s head to lean back abruptly. Donald hated that shit.
“How far are we from the hotel? I’m hungry,” he asked with his lips too close to Donald’s ear.
“Nigga, get the fuck off of my seat!” he yelled. “And we ‘bout ten minutes out.” He paused. “Stop being so fucking greedy. That’s why your neck beefy as is. You eat too fucking much.”
Embarrassed, he flopped back in the seat and rubbed his coffee colored chin. “Fuck you,” he said under his breath. When Chance and Rasim laughed too he continued, “Fuck all you niggas.”
What Donald said was true. Brooklyn’s body inflated weekly and if it hadn’t been for his cute face and five o’clock shadow, he would’ve had a problem in the ladies department.
Unlike some wannabes who sought street cred by claiming Brooklyn, he was a true transplant from the city that never slept. The funniest thing was he just appeared to come from nowhere.
When Rasim asked Donald where he met Brooklyn, he didn’t say much. Just that he was hanging out front a liquor store one day and dude bought him a bottle and gave him a place to sleep when his parents had the house full of fuck buddies. After that, Rasim and Chance met him, liked him, and they’d been together ever since.
But Brooklyn never, ever, talked about his past. And since the friends didn’t like talking about theirs either, the unsaid agreement worked.
Chance, on the other hand, was tall and light skinned with eyes the color of toffee. His mother and father owned a bakery out Maryland and did alright for themselves. They were good parents but since they had him at the age of forty, they were too old to run after him or warn him about life’s horrors. Because of it,
he had a silent case of Chlamydia and a bout of herpes, which he didn’t know about. He assumed he had sunburn on his dick. At least that’s what he kept telling his friends.
The teenagers were bopping their heads along with the music but their happiness evaporated when Donald suddenly whipped the car to the curb. At first Rasim assumed he lost what was left of his senses until he saw a cute girl with a pregnant ass switching down the street.
Donald slithered out of the car, whispered in the girl’s ear and smacked her so hard she took five steps backwards. To make shit worse, he grabbed her by the forearm and escorted her toward the car.
Rasim’s face heated because he wasn’t with the abusing women shit. His father taught him to respect the ladies and the elderly and he upheld that belief.
“What the fuck is this nigga doing?” Brooklyn asked as his jaw hung in amazement.
“Do he even know that bitch?” Chance questioned in a high-pitched voice.
“It don’t look like it to me,” Rasim responded as his eyes blinked as if he were seeing things.
“Man, this nigga ‘bout to get us locked up,” Brooklyn predicted.
Odd to some, but this was what happened with Donald sometimes and it spooked Rasim out. If he fucked with you, he fucked with you hard and for repayment you would be forced to endure his unpredictable behavior.
The back door flew open and the girl was stuffed inside by way of a shove to the back of her head. She plopped in the seat and her titties smooshed against Brooklyn’s lap and her face nestled in the center of Chance’s crotch.
As she attempted to get herself together, Donald slammed the door, missing her ankles by mere inches. When she finally repositioned herself in her own seat, she was on Brooklyn’s left, next to the window. Without the benefit of an explanation, Donald slid back into the pilot position and eased the car into traffic.