Authors: T. Styles
Tags: #African American, #General, #Fiction
April 10, 1995
Hard rain slapped against the public bus’s windows as sixteen-year-old Rasim shared a rear seat with Selena Amo, a seventeen-year-old strumpet. Her damp jean jacket was draped over their legs to hide his finger slithering into her drenched vagina.
Although the bus was crowded, Selena was totally with the shit. She didn’t care who saw them or what they had to say. She was kicking it with Rasim, one of the cutest boys in high school. Besides, she had been crushing on him for the longest. The only complication was that Rasim didn’t want a girlfriend. And if the truth be told, she was hoping the finger trip she allowed him to take inside her body would nudge him closer to being the relationship kind.
Occasionally Rasim would eye the bus driver from the large rearview mirror and ninety percent of the time he was looking in their direction. But all Rasim could do was hope he couldn’t see his freak show.
A few passengers, who had as much going on in the bedroom as an empty bed, couldn’t help but turn every so often to view the juveniles with distaste and pocketed envy.
The biggest offender was the older black woman sitting in front of him with a rat’s nest on her head that was born a wig. The perfume she sported resembled the odor of a nasty stripper who attempted to conceal the stank of her pussy with cheap eau de toilette.
Every so often she would turn around, roll her eyes and threaten with her body language to get up and tell the driver. Neither teenager gave a fuck so after awhile she minded her own business.
When Selena’s stop approached she piloted his wrist back and forth, in and out of her vagina until she squirted her cream over his fingertips. She did not want to leave until she got her rocks off. Satisfied, she moaned, bit down on her lower lip and looked over at him with a sly smile. “Ahhh, Rasim. That was nice. Thank you.” She whipped her long, brown hair over her shoulder.
Having done little work, he didn’t deserve the credit. But he smiled and kissed her pretty pink lips. Despite being a stone cold freak, Selena was a looker if she was nothing else. The kind of girl rappers would kill to have in their videos or on top of their dicks. A tiny mole sat on the tip of her nose and was not offensive in the least. In fact, Rasim found it quite twee.
In awe, she rubbed her hand over his smooth hair and down his soft cheek. She admired how handsome he was. Of pure Pakistani descent, his complexion was butter brown and his entire body was minus a blemish or flaw. He was scrawny, not a muscle in sight, but he was gorgeous to look at. “One day you and I will be forever connected,” she predicted. “I can feel it in my heart.”
Selena had the stage so he wouldn’t counter her prediction although he didn’t believe it. He wasn’t trying to be with her for the long haul. Instead he pulled his hand out of her body. The air rushed against his wet digit until it stiffened due to being soaked with her icing. “I don’t doubt it,” he winked.
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.
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.