The Seattle Sister
"His father's sister lives in Seattle—another city with a thriving Somali community. When he visits for a tech conference, the thick divorced eddo puts him up for the week. She hasn't had a man since her divorce, and Seattle nights are long and cold."
Seattle has rain like Minneapolis has snow.
Constant. Gray. A blanket of water that makes the city feel smaller, more intimate. My father's sister has lived here for fifteen years, part of the Somali community that calls Rainier Valley home.
"Soo dhawow!" Eddo Shamso pulls me into a hug at the airport. "Look at you—so tall! When did you become a man?"
"Mahadsnid, Eddo."
"Don't call me that." She laughs, swatting my arm. "It makes me feel old."
She's fifty-two. Divorced—her husband left for a younger woman ten years ago. No children. Just her, alone in a city that rains eight months a year.
She's thick.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of Somali auntie. Wide hips that strain her jeans—she dresses American here, no diracs unless there's an event. Heavy breasts beneath a rain jacket. A round face that's still beautiful despite everything.
"The conference is downtown?" she asks, loading my bag into her Subaru.
"All week."
"Then you'll stay with me. I have the spare room ready."
I climb in.
I try not to notice how she fills the driver's seat.
I fail.
Her apartment is cozy.
Small but warm, decorated with Somali art and Seattle photos. The Space Needle on one wall, the Mogadishu skyline on another.
"Tea?" she offers.
"Haa. Mahadsnid."
She makes shaah. We sit in her living room while the rain drums against the windows.
"Your father says you're doing well," she says. "Tech job. Good salary. No wife."
"Not yet."
"Ceeb—shameful." She clicks her tongue. "A man your age should be married."
"What about you? You never remarried."
Her face tightens.
"No man wants a fat old divorcee."
"That's not true."
"Wallahi, it is. I've tried the apps. The community events. They all want young, thin, traditional." She sets down her cup. "I'm none of those things."
"You're beautiful."
She freezes.
"Warya—"
"I mean it."
"I'm your eddo. Your father's sister."
"And?"
"And this—whatever you're thinking—is xaaraan."
"Everything good is."
The rain drums louder.
Neither of us moves.
She comes to my room that night.
"I couldn't sleep," she says from the doorway. "I keep thinking about what you said."
"Which part?"
"That I'm beautiful." She steps inside. Closes the door. "No one has said that since before my divorce."
"Then everyone is blind."
"Wallahi, don't—"
"I mean it." I sit up. "You're the most beautiful woman I've seen in Seattle."
"The women here are—"
"Not you." I reach out. "Come here."
She comes.
She sits on the edge of my bed.
Her body trembles.
"This is wrong," she whispers. "Your father—my brother—"
"Doesn't have to know."
"But I'll know. I'll remember. Every family gathering, I'll look at you and think—"
I kiss her.
She freezes.
Then melts.
"Ten years," she gasps against my mouth. "Ten years of nothing. Of being alone."
"Not anymore."
I reach for her pajamas.
She doesn't stop me.
She undresses in the Seattle rain-light.
Heavy breasts spilling from her bra. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"I'm fat—"
"You're perfect."
I pull her onto the bed.
I worship my father's sister.
My mouth traces her body—every curve she's hidden.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since the divorce—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Ten years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. The rain drums accompaniment.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "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 reaches out. "My ex-husband was—nothing—"
"Forget him."
"Already have."
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for ten years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, ten years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck my father's sister.
While Seattle rains outside. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood my aunt.
Fill her where ten years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together while the rain falls.
"Macaan," she breathes. "My sweet nephew."
"The conference runs all week."
"I know." She pulls me close. "Five more nights."
"And after?"
"Seattle isn't far from Minneapolis." She kisses me softly. "Visit often. The rain is lonely without company."
Two Years Later
I visit Seattle monthly now.
The tech industry has hubs here—conferences, meetings, networking. Perfect cover.
The real reason walks through the door of her Rainier Valley apartment.
"Macaan," Shamso moans, as I take her. "My favorite nephew."
I'm her only nephew.
But the sentiment stands.