The Doha Delay
"A flight delay in Doha pairs him with a thick Somali-Qatari businesswoman at the Qatar Airways lounge. She speaks Arabic and Somali equally well—and shows him what Gulf hospitality really means when the night stretches long."
Hamad International glitters at midnight.
The most luxurious airport in the world, and I'm stuck here. Flight to Minneapolis delayed until morning. The lounge is quiet, almost empty.
She sits across from me.
"Soo dhawow," she says. A Somali greeting in an Arab airport. "You're Somali?"
"Haa. American-Somali."
"I'm Yasmin. Qatari-Somali." She extends a manicured hand. "My father was from Mogadishu. My mother is Qatari."
She's thick.
Gulf wealth and Somali genes combined. Two hundred and forty pounds of luxury—designer abaya, gold jewelry, heavy breasts and wide hips that even the flowing fabric can't hide.
"Delayed?" I ask.
"Until morning. You?"
"Same."
"Then we have time." She signals a waiter. "Champagne?"
"Isn't that xaaraan?"
"Many things are." She smiles. "Doesn't stop them from being enjoyable."
We talk until the lounge empties.
About her business—she trades in real estate, moving money between Qatar and East Africa. About my work. About being Somali in places where Somalis don't belong.
"People underestimate me," she says. "They see a fat woman in an abaya. They don't see the millions I move."
"Their loss."
"Wallahi?"
"You're brilliant. And beautiful."
She sets down her champagne.
"I have a suite at the airport hotel. Complimentary. The flight doesn't leave for eight hours."
"What are you suggesting?"
"That we don't waste time." She stands. "Follow me."
The suite is palatial.
Qatari luxury at its finest. King bed. Marble bathroom. A view of the tarmac where planes sleep.
"I travel constantly," she says, removing her abaya. "Dubai. London. Nairobi. Doha. Always moving. Never stopping."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is." Underneath, she wears silk. Expensive. Minimal. "Do you know how hard it is to find a man who sees past the money? Past the weight? Past everything?"
"I see you."
"Then show me."
I worship the Qatari businesswoman.
Her body is Gulf-rich and Somali-thick. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel before her. "Not properly—not in years—"
I taste her.
She screams into the pillow.
"YA ALLAH!" Arabic mixing with Somali. "ILAAHAY!"
I lick her slowly. Five-star hospitality.
"Coming—ana baji—I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—dakhil—ku soo gal—" She mixes languages desperately. "Please—min fadlik—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Na'am. Haa. Yes."
I thrust inside.
She screams in two languages.
"So big—kabir—weyn—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the Gulf mogul.
In her airport suite. While planes taxi outside.
"Asra'—dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—baji—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Yasmin.
Fill her in the Doha luxury she's used to.
We lie tangled on the expensive sheets.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Habibi." Sweet. My love.
"The flight leaves in six hours."
"Then we have five more." She straddles me. "I didn't become a billionaire by wasting time."
Six Months Later
We meet in airports now.
Doha. Dubai. London. Wherever our flights intersect.
"Macaan," she texts. "I'm in transit. You?"
I adjust my tickets.
The world shrinks when you know where to find each other.
Some delays are worth the wait.