Maybe Not So Recessive After All

Adapting to my new roommate was not a completely smooth endeavor; there were more than a few bumps in the road. While she was certainly not a devout Muslim, she wasn’t thrilled when I brought her a double bacon cheeseburger from the 'infamous' burger joint in town. Though she didn’t seem to have any objection to taking advantage of the fact that as I am over 21 it was easy for me to by booze for myself. And by proxy, her.

Nonetheless, Farah and I became very good friends. We even had a couple classes together, when she wasn’t participating in her international student program. While we did almost everything together, we weren’t anything more than just friends, despite what the rest of the hall believed. Life was going great for me. I was kicking ass in class, I had a new best friend who, if I was honest with myself, was drop dead gorgeous. But lately things had gotten a little… off between Farah and me.

I wasn’t sure what happened, or even when it started, but after the first eight weeks or so, Farah started acting a little odd. At first, I wrote it off to homesickness: she was far from home, and was increasingly making calls home to speak to her mom. But my roommate was adamant that wasn’t it, it was just “something personal” that she had to work through. I grew up with sisters, so I took that as a clue to shut up.

It was early December when things finally came to a head. As she grew increasingly distant, I worried that she was deciding to go back home at the semester break. I was sure I was about to lose my friend, and roommate. So, when I entered the dorm room after class one Friday afternoon, my heart dropped into my stomach when I saw her on the phone with her Mom.

“Mom, John just came in the room, I need to go. I promise I will tell him. Yes. Today. Bye.”

While she’s finishing up her conversation with her mother, I reach into the ridiculously small fridge all dorm rooms have and grab a beer. Somehow, I feel like this incoming chat is going to require some liquid cushioning. As she hangs up her phone, I toss her a can as well.

“Sounds like we have something to talk about,” I say as I crash onto the small sofa we’ve wedged into our room.

“You heard that, did you?” Farah responds as she settles in next to me, surprisingly close, “Yeah, this is a pretty important conversation we’re about to have. I hope there is at least a couple more beers in that fridge.”

Pausing to take a pretty deep pull from her beer, Farah brushes some stray hair behind her ear and continues. “John, what do you know about Saudi Arabian women?”

“Truthfully? Not a whole lot. Even less when we first met. You and Martina were rather cryptic about it that night. I’ve done a bit of research since then. Saudi Arabian is the harem fetish country, right?” I get a quick nod at that, her eyes never leaving mine. “Saudi women tend to imprint on a man they’ve had a ‘normal’ relationship with they basically fall in love with them, and try to do everything they can for them, including building a harem for them. At least that’s what the Pedicheck website says. But what does that have to do with you? You said you were immune from the fetish, right?”

“I am. Or, at least, I thought I was. You know that my family is pretty rich, right? Turns out that between private schools, quick overturn of staff and a gated community, I never really developed long lasting relationships with men. So, what we thought was me being immune to the fetish, was simply just the result of not having had a close or deep enough of a relationship with a guy until now.”

With that Farah looked down, unable to hold my gaze anymore, “Until you.”