Philadelphia Tailor
"She tailors traditional clothes for West Philly's Somali community—a thick ebony widow whose stitches are legendary. When he needs wedding attire, she measures him personally. Some fittings are very private."
Mumtaz Tailoring has dressed three generations.
Hidaya learned from her mother in Mogadishu, continued in the refugee camps, and perfected her art in West Philadelphia. Her stitches are prayers.
I need a guntino for my sister's wedding.
"Traditional?" She examines me with the eye of a master. Fifty-seven years old. Two hundred and fifty-five pounds of sewing expertise. Ebony skin, measuring tape around her neck, pin cushion on her wrist. "When is the wedding?"
"Three weeks."
"Ilaahay—that's rush work." She circles me slowly. "But possible. Step onto the platform."
She measures with precision.
Chest, waist, shoulders, arms. Her hands touch me professionally but lingeringly.
"Good proportions," she says. "Easy to dress."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She writes numbers. "The fabric hasn't been chosen. Come back tomorrow to see samples."
I come back tomorrow.
And the day after. And every day until the fitting.
"You're here a lot," she observes.
"I want the perfect outfit."
"Or the perfect excuse." She looks up from her sewing machine. "I've been making clothes for forty years. I know when someone keeps coming back for reasons beyond fabric."
"What reasons?"
"You tell me."
"I lost my wife last year."
We're in her shop after hours. Fabric samples spread between us.
"She loved traditional clothes. Wanted to wear a dirac at every event. I never appreciated it until she was gone."
"Innaa lillaahi..." Hidaya sets down her scissors. "Grief makes us see what we missed."
"What did you miss?"
"My husband. Fifteen years dead. I was so busy building this business, I didn't notice him fading." Her voice catches. "He died in his sleep. I was at the machine, finishing a bride's dress."
"That's not your fault."
"The dress was beautiful. The bride was happy." She looks at her hands. "And I was alone."
"Come to the fitting room."
It's the final fitting. The guntino is magnificent—deep blue, gold threading, her finest work.
"Try it on."
I change behind the curtain. Step out.
"Perfect," she breathes. "You look like a prince."
"Thanks to you."
"Thanks to God." She adjusts the collar. Her hands linger. "My husband wore something like this. On our wedding day."
"You still remember?"
"I remember everything." She looks up at me. "But I've stopped living in those memories. Fifteen years is long enough."
"What do you want now?"
"To feel something new."
I worship the tailor.
Among fabric bolts and sewing machines. Her body is a tapestry—ebony threads woven with years of craft.
"Fifteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've dressed everyone else—"
"Tonight I undress you."
I lay her on her cutting table.
Her body is art—heavy breasts, soft belly, wide hips. Every curve stitched with experience.
I spread her thick thighs.
Thread pleasure through her.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—fifteen years of solitary sewing breaking. Her skillful hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I embroider her pleasure until she comes three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—complete the garment—"
I strip. She watches with those expert eyes.
"Subhanallah—finest material."
"Custom fit."
I push inside the tailor.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I stitch pleasure into her.
Her massive body shakes among the fabrics. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Finish inside me—"
I complete the design.
We lie among fabric samples.
"The wedding is in two days," she murmurs.
"And I'll be wearing your work."
"Will you come back after?"
"Every day."
The Wedding
Everyone compliments my guntino.
My sister asks who made it.
"Mumtaz Tailoring. The best in West Philly."
After the celebration, I return to her shop.
"Macaan," she moans as I slip inside her again. "My perfect fit."
The tailor who dressed me.
The woman I want to undress forever.
Custom love.