British sluts in hargeisa
British sluts in hargeisa one summer night on the Edgware Road in London, the streets aglow British sluts in hargeisa electric bulbs and neon, I walked towards one of my regular haunts: The delineation between night and day was muddied by busy Livechatteen selling candy floss and roasted peanuts. The traffic was loud and obnoxious while the air carried the British sluts in hargeisa of lamb kebabs mingled with musky attar perfume and shisha smoke. Belly dancers twinkled in their costumes through British sluts in hargeisa windows; itinerant rose-sellers harassed couples on the terraces.
Edgware Road was once home to Tyburn gallows, where traitors, heretics, and petty criminals were publicly hanged. This was long before Hyde Park stretched out along its southern front and the Marylebone flyover cut across its northern boundary. Close to Marble Arch and Oxford Street, it now shares their trashy anonymity while having a distinctive Middle Eastern ambiance—first, Ottoman traders in the nineteenth century and then students from Egypt, exiles from Iran, British sluts in hargeisa refugees from Lebanon put their stamp on this neighborhood. It is where I go to stretch out time with friends, assured that we will find someplace open before we each have to return to our distant quarters of the city.
The road attracts a very specific mix of people: In the downstairs salon of my red-and-gold shisha palace, the music played on a widescreen British sluts in hargeisa attached to a wall and connected to an obscure satellite channel. It screened everything from denim-shorted hotties cavorting in the surf to old Egyptian musicals, in which a two-inch gap had to constantly be maintained between male and female dancers. The small room had cushions cut from kilims placed along the walls, and low brass coffee tables surrounded by a litter of shisha pipes.
In one corner I saw a party in their early twenties: To my left was a young couple: She flicked through her phone with long, translucent nails. As my wild-haired and wide-smiling male friend came to join me at the table, her eyes slid across to me. She told me that she was half-Lebanese and at college. Her boyfriend, however, sat catatonic beside her, smoke streaming from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth. It was sometime later that I heard a commotion behind me and turned to see the young girl belly-dancing to a darbouka solo, slowly swinging her hair and hips.
I tried to resume my conversation but was irritated by the whooping and wolf whistling of the waiters. Turning once again, I saw that the student had removed her jeans and was playing with the hem of her long, tight, black T-shirt, which was riding over her thighs and bum. I knew the waiters pretty well—had chatted late into the night with a couple of them when there were enough customers to justify a lock-in, about Iraq and the families they had left behind—but they had now turned into leering, glassy-eyed caricatures. They pulled out their phones to capture her performance; they shouted lurid encouragement in Arabic, they laughed and laughed. I turned back to her. Her arms were raised in some kind of euphoria, causing her T-shirt to rise up and reveal her G-string.
It reminded me, too vividly, of the opening scenes in The Accusedwhen Jodie Foster is dancing in the pool hall, seemingly blissful and in control of the situation, before the attackers encircle her. Her arms came down, her hips stopped gyrating, and she agreed, dejectedly, to put her jeans back on. The handsome teenage server happily passed me the neatly folded denim jeans from where he had put them on a shelf, and I led her to a toilet where she could change in privacy. Once she was dressed, it was as if a spell had been broken. She put on her jacket, and whatever dream or nightmare she was recreating scattered.
She pulled me in for an embrace and whispered thank you in my ear. She had put us all under a test and I felt vindicated. My instinct had been to protect her as she had tried to protect me. This crazy young girl, flitting around London at night, reminded me of those jinns that take human form to toy with and improve humanity. The homeless man who exchanges a few coins for a life story worthy of an epic; the mentally ill woman on the night bus who sings like Ella Fitzgerald; the young hoodie boys who once rescued me from a trapped elevator. Linking arms with her boyfriend to remain steady as they climbed the steps back up to the street, the dancer turned around to me.
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