The Halal Hookup
"There's nothing halal about what happens. When his Somali dating app matches him with a thick divorced mother, he expects awkward tea. Instead, she takes him to her bedroom and shows him what years of bad marriage taught her to crave."
The app is called Muzmatch.
Muslim dating. Halal connections. Find your spouse the modern way while respecting tradition.
My mother downloaded it on my phone.
"You're twenty-eight," she said. "Time to get serious."
I swiped right on Farhiyo because she made me laugh.
Her profile said: Divorced. One kid. Not looking for prince charming—just someone who shows up.
We matched.
She messaged first: Please don't be boring.
I wasn't boring.
We meet at a Somali café in Cedar-Riverside.
She's not what I expected.
Forty-one years old. Thirteen years older than me. Her profile photos were modest—hijab, loose clothes, respectable angles.
In person, she's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of Somali woman, dressed in a dirac that strains against every curve. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A round, pretty face with intelligent eyes.
"You're younger than your photos," she says.
"You're more beautiful than yours."
She laughs—surprised.
"Warya, don't start with flattery. I've been married. I know all the tricks."
"It's not flattery. It's observation."
She studies me.
"You're different."
"Different how?"
"The men on these apps—they're either looking for a virgin or a nurse. Someone to cook for them or someone pure enough to impress their mothers." She sips her tea. "What are you looking for?"
"Someone real."
"I'm very real." She gestures at her body. "Too real for most Somali men."
"Then they're missing out."
We talk for three hours.
About her marriage—eight years to a man who criticized her weight, her cooking, her everything. About her divorce—the freedom she found when he left for a younger woman. About her son—twelve years old, at his father's this weekend.
"This weekend," I repeat.
"Yes." Her eyes meet mine. "I have the apartment to myself."
"Would you like company?"
She's quiet for a moment.
"This isn't what the app is for."
"What is it for?"
"Finding husbands. Making families. Halal connections."
"And if I want something else?"
"What else do you want?"
"You." I lean across the table. "Not a wife. Not a mother. You. Tonight."
She inhales sharply.
"Follow my car."
Her apartment is small but clean.
Photos of her son on the walls. A prayer rug by the window. The evidence of a life rebuilt after divorce.
"Shaah?" she offers.
"I didn't come for tea."
She sets down the kettle.
Crosses to me.
She kisses me.
Hard. Hungry. Eight years of bad marriage and three years of loneliness pouring through her lips.
"Xaaraan," she gasps, pulling back.
"The app lied. Nothing halal about this."
"Maya." She grips my shirt. "Nothing halal at all."
She pulls me toward the bedroom.
Her bedroom is simple.
Queen bed. Modest furniture. The bed where she's slept alone for three years.
"I haven't done this since the divorce," she confesses, reaching for her dirac. "I don't know if I remember how."
"Let me remind you."
The dress falls.
She wears plain cotton underneath—practical, not seductive. But her body is seduction enough.
Heavy breasts spilling from her bra. Soft belly marked with stretch marks—evidence of the son she loves. Wide hips. Thick thighs.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're exactly what I want."
I unclasp her bra.
I worship her on the bed where she's been alone.
My mouth traces every curve. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her legs. "My husband never—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "Eight years of marriage and he never—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Show her what she's been missing.
"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 reaches out. "My ex-husband was—nothing—"
"Your ex-husband was a fool."
"Haa." She strokes me. "A complete fool."
I push her onto her back.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready since our first message."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, three years without making her impossibly snug.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the divorced mother from Muzmatch.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Show me what I've been missing—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams—no son to wake, no neighbors close enough to hear.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the woman from the dating app.
Fill her where her ex-husband never satisfied her. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best match I've ever made."
"This isn't what the app intended."
"No." She laughs. "But it's what I needed."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" She shifts, straddles me, guides me inside her again. "Now we do this every weekend. When my son is gone. When I'm alone."
"That's not very halal."
"Xaaraan suits me better." She starts to move. "Halal never satisfied me anyway."
One Year Later
We're still not married.
The app thinks we're inactive. My mother thinks I'm still looking.
But every other weekend, when her son goes to his father's, Farhiyo calls.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My haram match."
Some connections can't be made halal.
Some connections shouldn't be.