I had Mike wait with his car around the corner. Even though he is my track coach and not just any boy from school, my parents are conservative enough that when it comes to me and boys, deception was usually my M.O. My parents emigrated from Somalia a few years before I was born, and they are your typical Muslim immigrant family—well educated, loving, but very protective.
Mike had his blue Trailblazer parked just where he said it would be. I hurried over to the passenger door and hopped in. He was an assistant track coach and substitute teacher at my suburban high school. I had worked with him frequently over the past four years and had grown fond of him. He was medium height, with dark blonde hair and green eyes. He had broad shoulders and (I imagined) a gorgeous chest. He was an athlete, so he had a good body, but he wasn’t a muscle-bound oaf. As you might be able to guess by my description, I had developed a crush on him. The problem is that he was absolutely off limits. For one, I was seventeen and he was twenty-four. For another, he was a teacher at my school and my coach. And he was a white boy—-and a non-Muslim to boot.
So he was officially off-limits. But that didn’t prevent me from flirting shamelessly or fantasizing endlessly about a romantic encounter in the locker room. In my favorite fantasy, I’m alone taking a shower. I get some soap in my eye, and I’m trying to rinse it out when I feel a strong hand on my hip. Because of the soap, I can barely see. All I can make out is that the hand is white, and it feels like fire against my skin. I try to turn, but another hand is at my shoulder, gripping firmly. I stand still, shocked, as the hands caress my petite body, my hips, my ass, my breasts. I’m pushed to the ground, and can finally make out that the hands belong to Mike. (I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but at the time I wasn’t familiar with the act of love. After all, I was a virgin and I did come from a conservative background. As such, most of the fantasy did not involve specific acts, but rather fuzzy generalities. Speaking with friends since then, I’ve found out that this is quite common among virginal teens’ fantasies.)
When Mike announced that he leaving for graduate school the team threw him a going-away party. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be there as it coincided with Eid, a major religious holiday. So a few weeks later, I told Mike that I should take him out to dinner to say goodbye. When he accepted I told him where to meet me.
On the way to the restaurant we made small talk. It was early spring, and I had to decide what college I should attend. Mike seemed impressed that I had been accepted to UPenn and Cornell, as well as receiving a full-ride scholarship to the local state university. Mike tried to persuade me to go to UPenn. “It’s the East Coast, which is a lot more fun than the mid-west or upstate New York. And it’s only an hour-and-a-half from New York City. You can come visit some weekend. I’ll show you around.” Mike was going to be attending Law School in New York.
Mike took me to a Spanish restaurant. The food was wonderful, and Mike was charming. I often felt that I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation as I found myself lost in his eyes. (I am a hopeless teenage cheeseball romantic, I know.) Becoming distracted by inappropriate thoughts was not uncommon. Many times during practice I would miss out on an important training tip because I was admiring Mike’s broad shoulders.
Despite my protests, Mike picked up the bill. As soon as the waiter returned, I heard Mike’s cell phone go off. “Shit,” he said after he hung up. “I need to email a friend of mine something. It won’t take long—do you mind if we stop by my place? It’ll only take a minute.” I didn’t mind at all, and a part of me was pretty excited at the prospect of seeing his apartment. I’m laughing a little now at how naïve I was. Before then, I had never been alone with a boy. I could hear my mother nagging at me in the back of my head. If I were to believe her, Mike would jump on me the second we were alone. “Boys are interested in one thing,” she would say. Thankfully, she would be right.
Mike lived in a small but neatly furnished apartment a few blocks from the restaurant.
“The computer’s in my bedroom,” he said as he handed me the remote for his stereo. “Sorry. I don’t have a TV, but you can listen to music until I’m finished. I’ll be right out.” Mike disappeared into the back room and I began to inspect his music. He had a good collection of Hip Hop. I picked out a CD and put it on.
“I need to freshen up. Where’s your bathroom?” I asked, sticking my head into Mike’s room. Mike told me I had passed it in the hall. Inside, I checked myself out in the mirror. My hair looked okay, but I was particularly satisfied with the way my skirt showed off my legs. I thought I had caught Mike checking them out at dinner.
Exiting the bathroom, I found that Mike had finished his email chore. He was in the small kitchen the adjoined the living room. “Would you like a drink?” he said. Drinking alcohol is forbidden for Muslims but I wasn’t feeling too religious at the moment.
”Sure,” I replied. We sat on the couch and drank and talked. After my second drink, I began to feel extremely light headed. The booze made me bold. The couch was small and I pushed my leg up against Mike’s. My skirt had ridden up and the denim of his jeans rubbing against my bare thigh was driving me wild. “I’m really going to miss you after you’re gone, Mike.”
”Well, I’m just glad I was able to...Miriam, what’s wrong!” The drinks had really gone to my head, and I suppose I almost passed out, my head falling in Mike’s lap. I was drunk, but I could feel a stiffness under those jeans. Was it possible that Mike was turned on too?
