The Columbus Cousin
"He visits his cousin in Columbus, Ohio—home to the second-largest Somali population in America. His cousin's thick divorced mother needs help moving furniture. By the time they're done rearranging, more than just the furniture has been moved."
Columbus has more Somalis than anywhere except Minneapolis.
My cousin Abdi lives there now—moved from Minneapolis for a job at Ohio State. When I visit, I stay at his mother's house. My aunt Faiza. My father's sister.
Divorced.
Alone.
Thick.
"Soo dhawow!" She pulls me into a hug at the airport. "Look at you—so big now! When did you become a man?"
"Mahadsnid, Eddo Faiza."
"Don't call me Eddo." She laughs. "It makes me feel old."
She's fifty years old. But she doesn't look it.
Faiza is one of those women who age like fine wine. Her face is round and pretty, her smile quick. And her body—
Wallahi, her body.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of Somali woman, dressed in a dirac that strains at every seam. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A softness everywhere that makes a man stare.
"Abdi is at work," she says, leading me to her car. "He won't be home until late. But I need help—I'm rearranging the furniture. You strong enough?"
"I can manage."
She smiles.
Something in it I can't quite read.
Her house is in a Somali neighborhood.
Small but clean, decorated with photos of the family. Abdi's graduation. Her ex-husband—notably absent from recent frames.
"He left four years ago," she explains, catching my look. "Younger woman. Classic story."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was terrible." She kicks off her shoes. "The furniture is in the bedroom. Help me move the bed."
I follow her.
The bedroom is small. The bed is queen-sized.
"Where do you want it?"
"Against the other wall." She grabs one end. "Ready?"
We lift.
The bed is heavier than it looks.
We shuffle it across the room, grunting with effort. Her dirac rides up. I try not to look at her thick thighs.
"There." We set it down. "Perfect."
She's breathing hard. Her chest heaves.
"Mahadsnid." She wipes her forehead. "I couldn't have done that alone."
"Happy to help."
"You're so strong now. Not like the little boy I remember." She looks at me. "When did you grow up?"
"A while ago."
"I can see." Her eyes trace down my body. "I can definitely see."
The air changes.
We're standing in her bedroom. Her bed between us. Her divorce four years old and still fresh.
"Faiza—"
"Eddo," she corrects. "You're supposed to call me Eddo."
"You said not to."
"I changed my mind." She steps around the bed. Closer. "Say it."
"Eddo Faiza."
"Again."
"Eddo."
"Good." She's inches away now. "Do you know why I didn't want to hear it?"
"Why?"
"Because when you call me that, you're my nephew. My brother's son." Her hand finds my chest. "And what I'm thinking isn't something an aunt should think."
"What are you thinking?"
"Four years," she breathes. "Four years of nothing. Of being alone. Of lying in that bed every night, touching myself, wishing—"
"Wishing what?"
"Wishing someone would touch me instead."
She kisses me.
I kiss my father's sister.
Her mouth is soft and desperate. Her body presses against mine—all two hundred and fifty pounds of soft, warm, forbidden flesh.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Haa." Yes.
"You're my nephew—"
"And you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
She stares at me.
Then she reaches for her dirac.
It falls.
Underneath, she wears plain cotton—white bra, white panties. But even that's too much.
"Take it off," I tell her. "All of it."
Her hands shake as she obeys.
Her body is glorious.
Breasts heavy and soft, hanging past her navel. Belly round and warm, marked with the evidence of carrying Abdi. Hips wide as the horizon. Thighs thick enough to lose yourself in.
"I'm fat—"
"You're perfect."
I push her onto the bed we just moved.
I worship my aunt.
My mouth traces down her body—throat, breasts, belly. She gasps and moans, sounds she probably hasn't made in four years.
"No one has—" She's shaking. "My husband never—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "What are you—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Learn her. Four years she's been alone, and I taste every one of them.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
I give her another one.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm not your husband."
"Maya." She strokes me. "You're my nephew. Which is worse."
"Or better."
I push her onto her back.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Say it."
"I want my nephew inside me." Tears stream down her face. "I want you to fuck me on the bed we just moved."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me—tight, hot, wet.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—completely—"
I start to move.
I fuck my aunt.
On the bed we rearranged. In the house where my cousin will return tonight.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The bed—newly positioned—slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood my father's sister.
Pump her full while she shakes and moans. When I'm empty, I collapse onto her soft body.
"Macaan," she whispers. "My sweet nephew."
"Abdi will be home soon."
"I know." She strokes my face. "So we'll be quick. And quiet. And never speak of this."
"Never?"
"Not never." She smiles. "Just not around Abdi. You'll visit again. Next month. The month after."
"And this?"
"This happens every time." She pulls me for a kiss. "Columbus isn't far from Minneapolis. Come often."
I will.
Six Months Later
I visit Columbus every month now.
Abdi thinks I'm bonding with his mother. Helping the lonely divorcee. Being a good nephew.
He has no idea.
"Macaan," she moans every visit, as I take her in her bedroom. "My favorite nephew."
I'm her only nephew.
But I understand the sentiment.