Uptown Somali Boutique
"Her boutique on Hennepin sells traditional Somali clothing with modern flair—a thick ebony divorced designer who dresses the whole community. When he needs an outfit for Eid, she offers private fittings. Some fashion is meant to be worn in the bedroom."
Shukri's Somali Style is the trendiest boutique in Uptown.
Traditional dirac dresses with modern cuts. Macawiis for men in designer fabrics. She's revolutionizing Somali fashion, one outfit at a time.
I need something for Eid.
"Something traditional but not boring."
"Mashallah—a man who knows what he wants." She circles me slowly. Forty-nine years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of fashion expertise. Ebony skin, stylish hijab, impeccable makeup. "I have ideas."
She dresses me like an artist.
Fabrics I've never seen. Cuts that flatter. Colors that pop.
"You look—" She steps back. "You look like a Somali prince."
"I feel ridiculous."
"You look powerful." She adjusts my collar. "Clothes change how people see you. More importantly, they change how you see yourself."
"Is that why you do this?"
"I do this because my husband said Somali women should wear plain clothes." She smooths my shoulders. "So I divorced him and opened a boutique."
"Noticing a pattern here."
"Smart women leave small men." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "You're not small."
I become a regular.
Not just buying—hanging around. Helping with displays. Learning about fabric and design.
"Why are you always here?" she asks one evening.
"I like the clothes."
"You have enough clothes." She sets down a bolt of fabric. "Tell me the real reason."
"I like the company."
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I'm old and fat—"
"You're beautiful and brilliant."
"—and divorced for good reason."
"Your husband's good reason. Not yours."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Come to the back room."
"Why?"
"Private fitting." Her eyes hold something new. "Something no customer ever sees."
The back room is her studio.
Mannequins wearing half-finished designs. Fabric everywhere. A daybed for long nights.
"I design here," she says. "Create here. Dream here."
"What do you dream about?"
"Being seen." She turns to face me. "I dress everyone else. No one sees what I wear underneath. What I want to wear."
"Show me."
She undresses slowly.
Layers falling away—the hijab, the tunic, the flowing pants. Beneath, she wears silk lingerie. Red. Stunning against her ebony skin.
"I designed this too," she whispers. "Never had anyone to wear it for."
"You have me."
"Haa." Yes. "I have you."
I worship the designer.
Her body is her best creation—curves like art, ebony skin like the finest fabric. She gasps as I kiss her through the silk.
"Seven years—" She's trembling. "Seven years since anyone—"
"Tonight you're the one being dressed. In pleasure."
I remove the lingerie.
Her body is magnificent.
Breasts heavy and perfect, nipples dark. Belly soft and beautiful. Hips wide, thighs thick. She's designed for love.
I kiss down her body.
Kneel between her thick thighs.
"ALLA!"
She screams as my tongue finds her. Her hands grip my head.
"Seven years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I lick her through three orgasms.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—wear me—"
I strip. She watches with designer's eyes.
"Subhanallah—the proportions—"
"Stop measuring."
I lay her back on the daybed.
I push inside the designer.
She cries out—seven years of creative frustration releasing.
"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I make love to her among her creations.
Fabric surrounds us. Mannequins watch. She comes twice, three times.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—make me feel beautiful—"
I explode inside her.
We lie tangled in silk and satin.
"I should design something for you," she murmurs. "Something special."
"What kind of special?"
"The kind you wear after hours." She traces patterns on my chest. "When it's just us."
Eid
My outfit is the talk of the celebration.
Everyone asks where I got it. I smile and say:
"Shukri's Somali Style. The best in Minneapolis."
No one knows about the special outfits.
The ones she designs just for our private runway.
"Macaan," she moans as I fill her. "My beautiful, beautiful model."
The designer who dresses the community.
The woman who undresses for me.
Fashion and love intertwined.