Samira

by Nabila Kateeb

 

First night. A profile that caught my eye on a dating app: acceptable looks, good career credentials. Dark-skinned enough to remind me of the men back home, light-skinned enough that the men back home wouldn’t look down on us. Says more than a few words about himself, his boat-building hobby, his liberal-leaning politics. American-born, most likely. I swiped right, but told myself that with a name like Samira, he’d probably pass on me.

#

Second night, we matched. Now I have to explain Samira, why she exists, why she’s here and not hiding out in a bunker in Aleppo or cooking meals for Hezbollah soldiers in Marjaayoun. You’re educated? Yes, very much. He’s impressed. Thirty-two and still no partner? Oh, I’ve been focusing on my career. Don’t want kids? Well, I’m open to it. Just not sure at what point my ovaries will stop delivering. That’s fair, because he’d rather travel the world than have a family. We can always adopt if we change our minds.

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First date. We went out to dinner; he got the pork buns and I got the chicken wonton soup. You don’t eat pork? No, but I promise I’m not religious. But you drink? Oh, yes. As evidence, I ordered a margarita. He had a beer, and then another while I was still halfway through my drink. He drew closer to me on his bar seat until our knees brushed together.

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Second date, we took a walk by the harbor and he pointed out a boat, he wants to own one like that one day. I exclaimed about how exciting that was. When we said goodbye, he gave me the kissing look, so I leaned in. Our lips met, he smiled, and a pit of dread began to unfurl in my stomach.

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Third date, he invited me over. His apartment was clean and the bed was tidied up. He asked what I wanted to drink, I said whatever you’re having. We sat on the couch and he filled my wine glass. Want to watch true crime on Netflix? Sure. I pretended to be as engrossed with it as he was. He leaned over to kiss me, and I kissed back. But wait, I thought. I haven’t figured out how to deal with this yet.

#

I’ll just go with the flow. Maybe things will be different this time. I want to want it. He grew more enthusiastic, he took off my shirt, and I took off his. He asked if I wanted to move to the bedroom. Okay, I said.

#

I lay down, bracing like a patient waiting for the procedure to be over. He tried with his fingers first, looking into my eyes and smiling throughout. I gave a strained smile back. You doing alright? Sure I am. I didn’t say that my pelvic floor had its own ideas about that. Maybe some music, to relax a bit, he offered. That would be nice, I said. He started a lofi beats playlist. I breathed in and out, unclenched my thighs, tried to override three decades of programming in my brain. It’s trying its best, but it’s got too much to work with.

#

My body’s trying its best too. Like an overprotective parent, it genuinely thinks it’s watching out for my best interests. Thank you, body; thank you for protecting me, but I got this. I’m attracted to him. But I’m afraid of what comes next. I can already see strands of silver in my hair, but when it comes to sex, I’m as clueless as a sixteen-year-old. I remember my first pap smear, only last year; oh boy, that was no walk in the park. I remember trying to wear a tampon, backing out at the last minute because tampons are ‘not for girls’, because unmarried women are girls.

                                                                           #

My dashing boat connoisseur kept trying to prod his way up my vagina. He was getting nowhere, and it only made him more insistent. My brain helpfully supplied commentary. Maybe your vagina’s become shriveled from lack of use and is just no longer up to the task. An image comes next, of my hypothetical blood filling the sheets followed by my date’s exclamation of dismay. My hips responded in kind, clenching again, not waiting to ask how I felt about the whole situation. That seems to be the common denominator here. Nobody seems to know how Samira herself feels about things; perhaps nobody wants to know.

#

Wanting it means I am immoral and shameful. Never mind, forget that, the new lesson is that I’m supposed to want it because that’s healthy and normal. But now here’s another lesson: I’m not supposed to have it if my body doesn’t want it. And yet still, I so wish my body would want it. It’s hard not to blame Samira’s body. But how much can you blame a body for not wanting to be ravaged by the eternal hellfire promised to it in the event that it agrees to house a sinful, adulterous woman?

#

I finally grasped his hand and guided it away. He looked up, and there it was: the confusion, the hint of betrayal, the realization at last that I was in discomfort bordering on pain. Can we stop? I said the obvious. I was about as embarrassed as I’d expected to be, and not yet equipped with the language of articulating the complex reasons for what had just happened. He got up, went to get himself a beer, a polite expression shadowing his vague frustration. When he came back, I was sitting up and putting my clothes back on.

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Nabila Kateeb has lived in the United States for the better part of the last ten years. She enjoys reading, writing, cooking, and eschewing social media in favor of real community connections.