The Eid Encounter
"Eid celebrations bring the whole community together. After the prayers and feasting, he finds himself alone with his friend's thick divorced mother. She's wearing her best dirac, her finest gold—and nothing else underneath. Some Eid gifts are unexpected."
Eid al-Fitr brings everyone together.
The morning prayers. The feasting. The families gathering across Minneapolis, celebrating the end of Ramadan. My best friend Hassan's mother hosts the biggest gathering in Cedar-Riverside.
Halwa's house is packed.
Dozens of relatives, neighbors, friends. The smell of bariis and hilib fills every room. Children run screaming. Elders gossip. Young people sneak away to their phones.
And Halwa presides over it all.
Fifty years old. Divorced—her husband left for a younger woman five years ago. She's raised Hassan alone, kept the traditions alive, become the center of the community.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of Somali matriarch. Today she's in her finest dirac—gold silk that strains against her curves. Gold jewelry dripping from every visible surface. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. The image of Eid prosperity.
"Eid Mubarak," I tell her when I arrive.
"Eid Mubarak, my sweet boy." She pulls me into a hug that smells like perfume and bakhoor. "Hassan is helping in the kitchen. Go find him."
I go.
But I feel her eyes on me as I walk away.
The day winds down.
Relatives leave. Children collapse from sugar crashes. Hassan disappears—a girlfriend, he whispers, texting him to meet downtown.
By eight PM, only I remain.
"Warya, help me clean," Halwa says.
"Haa."
We work in silence. Dishes. Trash. The remnants of a celebration.
"You're a good boy," she says. "Not like my ex-husband."
"Thank you?"
"He never helped with anything. Not cleaning. Not cooking. Not—" She stops. Looks at me. "Anything."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be here." She sets down the plate she's drying. "Everyone else has gone home. Hassan won't be back until late. It's just us."
"Haa."
"And I've been thinking about you all day."
The words hang in the air.
"Halwa—"
"Don't call me that." She steps closer. "I see how you look at me. Have for years. You think I don't notice?"
"I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize for desire." She grips my shirt. "I've been without it for five years. Watching young men like you walk through my door, none of them seeing me."
"I see you."
"Wallahi?"
"You're the most beautiful woman at any Eid gathering. Every year."
She inhales sharply.
"My bedroom is upstairs. Hassan won't be back for hours."
"This is xaaraan."
"It's Eid." She smiles. "Allah is merciful."
She takes my hand.
Leads me upstairs.
Her bedroom is lavish.
The best of everything—her divorce settlement put to good use.
She stands before the mirror, still in her golden dirac.
"I got dressed this morning thinking no one would appreciate it," she says. "All this beauty. All this preparation. For nothing."
"Not nothing."
"Maya." She reaches for the zipper. "For you."
The dirac falls.
She wears nothing underneath.
No bra. No underwear. Just Halwa—two hundred and forty pounds of Eid splendor, naked except for her gold jewelry.
"This is what I've been hiding," she says. "All day. Waiting for everyone to leave. Waiting for you."
"You planned this?"
"Since last Eid." She turns to face me. "When I saw you grown, and I realized what I wanted."
I worship her among the Eid gifts.
My mouth traces her body—every golden curve.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel before her. "Since my husband—"
I bury my face between her thick thighs.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair, her gold bracelets clinking. "Five years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. The best Eid gift I've ever given.
"Coming—" She's shaking, her jewelry jangling. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her golden hand around me. "This is what I've been missing."
"Not anymore."
I push her onto the bed.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Eid Mubarak," I whisper.
"Eid Mubarak."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, five years tight. Her gold jewelry sings with every movement.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my friend's mother.
On her Eid bed. In her Eid jewelry. Her massive body bounces beneath me, gold glittering.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me the best Eid gift—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. Her jewelry clinks. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Halwa.
Fill her with the best Eid gift I can give. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gold scattered around us.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best Eid in five years."
"Hassan will be home soon."
"Then we'd better get dressed." She pulls me for a kiss. "But next month—Eid al-Adha—"
"I'll be here."
"Of course you will." She smiles. "You're my favorite guest."
One Year Later
I never miss an Eid at Halwa's house.
The community thinks I'm devoted to the holiday. To tradition.
They don't know about after.
"Macaan," she moans, her gold jewelry singing. "My Eid blessing."
Some gifts come wrapped in silk.
Others come wearing nothing at all.