Straight Arab Roommate

(Update: I changed some things on this chapter while writing the rest of the story and somehow it ended up doubling in size😳. Please let me know what you think!)

The college where I studied Medicine had a shabby free dorm, a place where students from different branches were crammed together in groups of two in a single room. After my low-profile, nerdy roommate of two years graduated with an IT degree, I was to be assigned another. This, of course, sucked as I had no social skills and wasn't interested in learning how to live with a complete stranger all over again. My previous roommate had been respectful, and as a result, we got along just fine. Both of us studied a lot and didn't talk or interact much beyond a brief hello which had been just fine by me.

You can imagine my horror when an Arab guy knocked on my door and introduced himself (in a thick accent) as my new roommate.

Abdul was every stereotype about masculine, hairy Arab men in a single package. He physically towered over me, so that I had to crane my neck uncomfortably to maintain eye contact; or give it up, which felt more natural. I groaned inwardly at the thought of sharing space with what appeared to be a third-world jock. But it’s not like I had any choice, it was either this or a student loan.

Abdul extended his callused hand for a handshake, and we exchanged greetings. He had a very thick English accent, and he called me "my friend" multiple times while putting his large arm around my shoulders, which made me uncomfortable, and forced me to smell his unwashed armpit.

I disentangled myself as quickly as I could and retreated to my small corner of the room giving me some space and allowing my foreign roommate to bring in and organize his stuff.

A few minutes later my clean and tidy room had become unrecognizable. Abdul had unloaded his luggage on my bed, kicked off his shoes in the middle of the room and took off his shirt further littering the floor. I found it uncomfortable to be around people that were casually shirtless, but I didn't say anything.

He had this look on his face like was doing something complicated separating his socks from his shirts (which I found funny) but what he lacked in, ahem, organizational skills he made up in physical exertion. Even though Abdul was this big man, he paced around quickly, rummaging through his stuff and tossing them into drawers, seemingly having no patience for the boring work of settling into a new place.  

The small dorm room that we are assigned to live in is really only meant for one person but, somehow, they managed to fit two beds in it and a tiny bathroom. While Abdul was claiming his space, I sat at my desk pretending to study to avoid the tense and uncomfortable silence of having absolutely nothing to discuss and lamenting my loss of freedom.

Eventually, by the time he was done, he was sweating and I could smell him from my personal corner. He caught me looking at him and I diverted my gaze back to my book hoping that he would let me be.

"Hey, my friend, are you doing anything important?", I somehow had to get used to his dumb sounding accent.

I thought it beyond rude to interrupt someone who is studying (or pretending to) but I attributed that to jocks not having the ability to see the value in anything beyond sports and sex.

I told him “Not at all", in a sarcastic tone, which flew over his head. He walked over and I felt the familiar (already) side bro hug, the sweat from his hairy forearm slicking my neck and new shirt. Abdul then proceeded to act amazed that I was able to read and understand the super basic anatomy textbook I had in front of me and was impressed to learn that I was a Medical student.

He started asking me personal questions about my life with an expression like he wanted to get to know me, which I always found uncomfortable in people. I got up, and sat on my bed as he sat on what he correctly assumed to be his and I was forced into having a conversation with him.

He asked me if I had a girlfriend, to which I rolled my eyes and answered no. I never had or wanted to have a girlfriend (or a boyfriend for that matter). He accepted that, as if it was in accordance to his expectation. We continued trying to make conversation, but the more we talked the less interested he seemed to be in what I had to say.

Out of politeness, I asked him about his plans and personal aspirations from which I learned that he was not here to study and that apparently a lot of young guys from his country use student exchange programs to get to Europe or the U.S. in order to amass a lot of money quickly (relative to them) from manual labor jobs. Abdul had apparently already been hired to work construction even before arriving here, where one of his cousins (another dumb Arab jock, I assumed) also worked at. A job that he claimed will allow him to buy farmland and marry his betrothed.

I was patient as he spoke, and when I started talking about my plans Abdul replied by yawning massively with a non-apologetic look on his face, "Sorry, my friend, I'm very sleepy.”

Still wanting to make a positive impression, almost as if by survival instinct if nothing else (living with a foreign construction guy that could kill me in my sleep was a newfound fear of mine), I ignored the rude interruption to my life's story and told him that I will maintain quietness and manage without artificial light so that he can rest from his long day of travel.

Throughout our conversation I found myself unable to hold eye contact; staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper or eyeing the floor where his large, socked feet and hairy calves permeated my view.

He simply nodded as he got up, removed his filthy socks, adding to the growing pile on the floor, and took down his shorts revealing some old white briefs underneath (not the preferred choice of undergarment for young western guys) before openly rearranging his stuff and shuffling back to his bed.

He sprawled out on the relatively small bedframe with a contented sigh, one large foot dangling over the edge because of his height. Not having any modesty to cover himself with a bedsheet or the decency to take a shower, the bulge of his sweaty underwear, the dark pubes sticking out from its sides, his dark hairy chest and legs, his masculine body etc. looked obscene to me and I had to look away.

Abdul was much bigger than me, not just taller but also thicker with a flat stomach. His abs were clearly visible, forming thick concrete mounds over his darkened abdomen. He had a bulky, farmer physique with big hairy forearms and a healthy thin layer of fat. The contrast between him and I couldn't have been more stark. I was a thin, white nerd with pale skin and astigmatism from studying too much. You could tell us apart any which way and with your eyes closed, through his scent alone which was, uh, decidedly manlier.

I tried to sleep but it was impossible due to anxiety, fear and disgust. My eyes kept glancing over at Abdul's bed, unconsciously studying him while he slept. Above all, I considered myself a scientist. I was top of the class and certainly able to control, study and understand my emotions through reasoning.

I tried to calm myself with thoughts of drifting into endless space (even though Abdul's rude snoring kept pulling me back into reality) before finally getting pulled into a bizarre dream-filled sleep.

In the early morning, a cacophony of sounds ripped me from my rest. A rough, foreign man’s voice was playing through a cheap speaker, overlaid over an eastern melody that did little to soothe my nerves.

Amidst the noise I became aware of the rhythmic movement of a real, live Arab beside me. There, clad only in briefs, was Abdul, doing push-ups in the cramped space between our beds.

What the fuck?

I was beyond annoyed. What kind of loser wakes up before dawn to exercise? Yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Abdul’s repeating motion as the muscles in his back shifted into defined shapes and his damp briefs clanged tightly over his clenched backside.

I was captivated by the motion, the same way a person might be by a well-oiled internal combustion engine or the live neural patterns of a pianist’s brain scan.

Inhaling and exhaling like an athlete, his movement was effortless and precise, lowering himself down completely on each rep and inadvertently mushing his thinly protected bulge against the cold floor before pushing himself up and repeating the process with no sign of fatigue. 

After a few minutes of this, Abdul had developed considerable sweat which was starting to attack my olfactory senses without consent.

Then, as the Islamic dictation over the radio changed tone, Abdul stopped himself and got on his knees, I thought at first to do a different kind of exercise, before realizing that he started to pray. The sounds on the radio making more sense now.

I continued feigning sleep, partly because I expected him to be done soon and let me get back to it, and because it felt like I was watching something private.

I couldn’t fathom how he thought it was appropriate to make all this noise, before there was even light in the sky, and only at arm’s length from the bed of his sleeping roommate. Yet, Abdul was so focused in his practice that he probably didn’t care or pay attention that I was there, awake and studying him.

His body was positioned at an odd angle, I guess facing exactly east, showing me mostly his back.

I groaned quietly. I had an early class and would be functioning at reduced capacity for no good reason. If it was up to me, religion would be banned in a 10-mile radius around every university campus.

Even so, as he prostrated forward, I couldn’t help but steal peeks at his body. With his forehead touching the floor in prayer, his sweaty backside faced up and stretched the damp fabric of his white briefs obscenely, giving me a very rude and plain view of his hairy ass.

Abdul would occasionally murmur some words in Arabic, as if responding to the voice on the recording. His hushed baritone voice was far more pleasing to my ears compared to the ugly shouting on the radio.

The air hung heavy, not just with the scent of Abdul's sweat (though that was undeniable), but with a strange tension I couldn't quite place.

It felt almost indecent to watch a praying man in such a manner, and to pay attention to all these details on him. The mechanics of the prayer itself were a demonstration of submission and it was interesting to see a guy like Abdul performing it. There was the understanding that this was something that Abdul would ever only do for his God and no one else, which is what made it meaningful.

Once he was finished, he got up and stretched out, wearing a peaceful expression on his face. He caught me staring at him and I found myself blushing. The anger that I was feeling earlier from having my sleep rudely interrupted had melted away and I didn’t know what to say.

He bellowed happily, “Good Morning, my friend!” with a strong voice and an easy smile while I mumbled a lethargic response back. I guess he was a morning person and I was not, which wasn’t the only difference between us.  

I stayed on my bed as Abdul got himself ready for his first day at the construction job. He knew what classes he had to attend and had planned out his schedule so that he maintained the minimum academic standards to continue being enrolled in the student program while working most hours.

I drifted off to sleep and woke up a bit later by my alarm clock.

I couldn’t walk to the bathroom without stumbling over Abdul’s shoes and scattered things. His bed was left unmade and everything from the carpet to the bedframe was left in a slightly off-center position, as if Abdul had the same effect on the small room as an earthquake. Apparently, his self-discipline didn’t extend to house duties.

The bathroom was cramped and tiny and Abdul had left things in a mess without much consideration for my needs. While I brushed my teeth, I noticed my favorite towel missing from its correct position. I looked around and found it on the floor, adorned with a single unmistakable pubic hair on it.

I went to gather my laundry basket to empty it in a communal washing machine before there was a busy line, annoyed by the situation, and was shocked to find foreign objects amidst my clothes.

I picked the aforementioned items up by the tip of my fingers, not wanting to touch them at all and trying not to gag as I inspected them more closely. They were Abdul's dirty clothes, among them being a pair of dirty socks and the sweaty underwear he’d been wearing that morning. That was the last straw.

As I seethed in anger, items in hand, the stench of his clothing hit my nose like a brick. It was a very intense smell.

Because of my inquisitive nature, I brought them closer to my face, careful not to contact the likely bio-hazard, and took another sniff. I still couldn't identify everything I was smelling. There was the unmistakable stale musk of an Arab guy in there, but it felt like something more. My heart hammered in my chest, and a heat bloomed in my cheeks that had nothing to do with anger. I was getting aroused. Fuck my life.

I, of course, being of a scientific mind with a passion for knowledge, had to get to the bottom of this. Why did Abdul’s filthy clothes – the very antithesis of everything I found appealing – trigger such a reaction in me? First, I would characterize myself as asexual. In my life, I've been equally uninterested in both men and women. Abdul was just a manly jock in my eyes, which I looked down upon. This was a puzzle to be solved and an opportunity to advance my knowledge. The biological underpinnings of which would make perfect sense once I explored further.

With a grimace, I separated the underwear and socks from the rest (the two most pungent items on the list) and with a heavy heart but a determined mind prepared myself to smell them individually and ascertain the culprit of my stimulation.

Of course, these items being only relics of the smell and the smell being only a proxy of something else, this was far removed from the ideal testing conditions which would have to be conducted directly on Abdul’s unwashed body, with the experimental freedom granted to me to explore, smell and touch him everywhere while checking my responses against another volunteer with a less masculine disposition, all while wearing a blindfold. Thus, conducting a perfectly publishable single-blind trial (in theory). That is, granted, insanity and even I in my pursuit of knowledge and understanding wouldn't go that far, not for any moral qualms, mind you, but more so because in Abdul’s culture the thought alone would be punishable by death. Alas, small minds limiting my scientific imagination, I had to settle with sniffing the underwear and socks in front of me, two items which were in direct and intimate contact with Abdul recently.

I began by picking up what looked to be the least gross item (the sock) and brought it close enough to my nose to smell. I was confused by the outcome. Instead of the disgust or revulsion I expected to experience, my heart began to race, and my penis twitched.

The smell was undeniably that of dirty feet, yet my body reacted in a way that defied logic. I then practically shoved my nose into the fabric, inhaling all the ripe smell Abdul’s socks contained in them, a strange craving developing in me.

My mind’s eye drifted to Abdul’s sleeping sprawled out form, my eyes traveling low past his hairy chest and abdomen, skipping the meaty bulge between his legs, towards his manly calves before settling on his dangling Arab foot. I gave my imagination free reign as I pictured myself sitting quietly on the floor by his bed and smelling his unwashed bare foot, wanting to feel his sole against my face but being too afraid of waking him up, salivating at the thought of his big toes in my mouth--I abruptly interrupted myself and threw the socks away in revulsion.

This was not right. Not in any moral or societal sense, I’m equally unfazed by taboo and populist opinion, don’t get me wrong, but this... wasn't that. This response felt humiliating.

Nevertheless, I "forced" myself to move onto his underwear, which I believed would be worse due to the visible sweat from earlier today and intimate proximity to his genitals. To my dismay, my reaction was stronger. His crotch must have been soaked in sweat all day yesterday from travel, further built upon by his vigorous push-ups this morning, creating a unique, heady smell that seemed to call out to basic instincts that I didn’t know I had. The manly scent was overwhelming, but instead of repulsion, I felt desire.

My dick throbbed with need. With my eyes closed, I traveled to last night again, when I tried but failed to avoid looking at Abdul's fat middle eastern bulge covered by the very fabric I was pressing against my face. Again, I let my imagination run wild as I pictured myself sneaking quietly on his bed, making my way between his splayed legs and pressing my face precariously against his only covered body part, feeling the shape of his member on my lips through his underwear, the size and warmth of his fat Arab balls against my mouth and cheeks while I snuggled between his hairy manly legs... Then I thought about this morning, when Abdul pressed his crotch inconsiderably against the floor on each push-up. I found myself wishing I was directly underneath him, my face providing a soft protective cushion for his dick and balls as they repeatedly suffocated me by draping over my face before temporarily giving me a moment to breath. I considered the possibility that his member might grow unexpectedly from this, and his hardened equipment might indeed slip out of his briefs, as a result of its size and the chaotic movements inherent in exercise, thus poking my face painfully on each rep, with its glistening head leaving red marks and a trail of precum on my face, while his heavy balls slapped me aggressively and covered me with smudges of sweat.

Abdul, of course, would be too focused on his push-ups and Muslim radio to notice what had happened and I would be forced to somehow accommodate the massive shaft, in order to save myself from unnecessary bruises, by opening my mouth and allowing his Arab erection to insert itself down my throat on each eccentric portion of the exercise, before sliding out on the concentric, saving me from needless pain and energizing the stud further, providing him with a second wind to complete his reps.

God, I was disgusted and turned on beyond belief. Out of self-respect I didn't allow myself the relief of masturbation and opted for a cold shower. I was being hypnotized into a reverie of lust and need by the smell and fantasy of him alone. I needed to understand why. My “experiment” had only intensified the mystery rather than provided me with a clear answer.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I was faced again with the mess Abdul had created in the room. Clothes were strewn everywhere like trash, his sneakers left discarded in the middle, creating a persistent funk around them, and this was only after less than a day of cohabitation!

Stewing wouldn’t help, so I grabbed a shirt (which smelled clean, so clearly it hadn’t touched Abdul’s body) and folded it with military precision before placing it in his drawer. I moved his filthy sneakers next to mine, inside by the door, before reconsidering and placing them outside the room. Next, I made Abdul’s bed, folding it to perfection and organized his desk.

I looked at my work with satisfaction, knowing that it will make him feel guilty and give him a clue to do his part from now on, without a need for confrontation. Then I noticed the time, grabbed my bag and dashed for my early class.

I spent most of the lecture preoccupied with thoughts of this new discovery about myself. A hypothesis popped into my mind, involving hermaphrodite animals that evolved the ability to effectively switch genders at the presence of a bigger, stronger male, thereby ensuring their survival by not competing (but instead, by getting fucked and carrying his babies, I guess). It irked me to think that something akin to that could be happening to me. I spent my whole life thinking I was asexual and evolved beyond such lowly needs only to find my sexuality "switching on" at the presence of a smelly Arab; but I dismissed the idea as a product of my anxiety. However, I couldn't dismiss the facts - the intense unprecedented lust I felt when I put Abdul's dirty laundry in my face.

After class was finished, it was already afternoon, and I had to head back to my dorm for a snack and to study in time for my evening class. I dreaded the prospect of seeing Abdul and getting turned on again, but I tried to push these thoughts away as I got to the door, only to have my worst fears realized.

Abdul had seemingly just come back from work, and he was in a state of undress as I entered the room. A heavy manly musk from working construction had fully replaced the clean smell of lavender from when I had left it. His filthy overalls were strewn on the floor, and I had to suppress an urge to pick them up. The shirt and underwear he still wore were so soaked in sweat that they clang on his skin and privates, hiding nothing.

I tried to make myself small and go by unnoticed. I could feel myself blushing and nearly having a panic attack. I was pathetic.

He smiled when he heard me enter, immediately thanking me for tidying up his things (which wasn’t the point) before asking me how my class was. He wasn’t embarrassed facing me, the thin fabric of his underwear (I guess his work rags) doing nothing to hide his meaty shaft from his audience. That, in combination with the friendly husky tone of his voice and gratitude for my “cleaning services” made me feel some kind of way.

He removed his shirt, stretching out his body and giving me a brief moment to glance at his package without being noticed. A sheen of sweat clung all over his exposed skin, highlighting his dark body hair and pumped muscles. His live odor was ten times stronger than the one I subjected myself to in the laundry, and, this time, my reaction was without a hint of disgust, but, instead, a Pavlovian response to his sexy musk had me horny and salivating immediately.

"Yes, hello.” I greeted him in a small voice before answering his non-question with my gaze defensively at the floor as I made my way to the safety of my corner, “It was a good introduction to calculus but I'm already familiar with the subject so it wasn’t very intere—“,  Abdul bent over and removed his socks as I was passing through (my eyes still glued to the floor were drawn by this motion and I became transfixed by the sight of his sweaty bare feet as I picked up an odor that quickly spread around the room). “Um, di-did you just come back from work? How was your day?" I asked him, mainly to avoid the awkwardness I was experiencing, my voice sounding higher and more nervous than I was meaning to.

I found myself getting drawn to his story as he spoke. His cousin had shown him the ropes and Abdul quickly proved himself, already having made himself useful, moving weight around effortlessly that would incapacitate others and showing an eagerness to do whatever was asked. He was a man and proud of it.

He also mentioned how he made new friends, which from the names and context I could gather were two white guys and a Mexican, all similar ages and dumb jock types that failed at school.

Abdul, clearly lacking modesty, continued talking to me as he hooked his fingers under the waistband of his sweaty underwear and casually lowered them down, not interrupting his narration, as he exposed his fat hairy Arab cock and balls to me.

I looked away, immediately, appearing almost to have been offended by the sight, but the image of his thick flaccid member and heavy low hanging balls flopping out as they were released from constraint was etched permanently on my brain. His skin in that region had a darker tone that commanded attention. Even as I was looking away, I couldn't not get a strong whiff of ball sweat that signaled a hardworking man.  Abdul, of course, wasn't going to apologize for smelling like one.

From the periphery of my vision, I saw (and heard) him “slap” around his stuff and rearrange them to air them out more effectively.

I couldn't stand it. Of course, I loved it, but I felt humiliated. I had to understand what was causing this reaction within me. It wasn’t normal. Was it pheromones? If so, it felt like I was exposed to a near lethal dose of them.

I tried to act normal at the presence of the nude Arab warrior in front of me but the sight was distracting.

Abdul said something, smiling, butt-naked, while picking up his dirty clothes off the floor and exposing his hairy crack to my virgin eyes just when I thought it was safe to look back. "Oh," I said, trying to compose myself, "that's good.", not knowing what I was even responding to at this point but it seemed to fit what he said and he headed to the bathroom nodding.

I was feeling weak on my knees, my heart was pounding hard, and my dick was throbbing with need. There was no denying it. I was in heat. The hard reality was that I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at Abdul’s feet, to worship and please him no matter the consequences. I wanted to kill myself. I prayed to God, Allah, or whoever, that Abdul didn't notice what was going on with me.

When he got out of the shower, he was still in the nude, again using my small towel to dry his large body, unashamed about it, not covering his heavy appendage which was flopping around obscenely with the erratic movements of getting himself dry.

He seemed so innocent about it all, not realizing the effect had on me, and I wasn’t going to tell him how to be comfortable in his living space. That he didn’t stress over nudity I attributed that to the fact that Abdul was a jock by nature, but, of course, that wasn’t an invitation for me to stare.

He told me some more stuff that happened today and that his friends would take him out tonight (I took note that he didn’t even consider asking me to join, even though I would have said no), all while bare-ass naked. I found myself wanting to keep asking him questions so my senses would continue to be assaulted by his bare presence, but I I didn’t want to expose myself. I got my phone and got the camera up, my face was getting red and betraying me. He was distracted, describing his day, more so I think to relive it himself than to inform me about it. My fingers moved to snap a photo, his naked frame on my screen was giving me a panic attack, what if he found out? Sadly, the point of the photo, to capture his dick, was a failure as his swinging mass was a total blur due to its motion.

I quickly got back to the camera and switched to video mode. I clicked record but before I had the chance to, Abdul had already dried himself and was putting on a pair of short shorts (no underwear underneath, I noted). I was relieved and frustrated.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, Abdul chilled on his bed texting on his phone before drifting to sleep and snoring softly in the afternoon heat. From the way he was stretched out, wearing no underwear, his privates risked becoming public.

I sat on my bed with my face in my hands, trying to comprehend my feelings, and occasionally ogling my sleeping roommate. I hated myself for being an animal. For the first time in my life, I understood why men are animals, why they cannot control themselves in the presence of something they desire. It was terrifying.

My mind kept circling back to fantasies of submission and with Abdul’s big mass next to me it was impossible to concentrate on anything else. While he slept, his body looked open and relaxed in a way that was welcoming attention and I found myself returning to some not so innocent thoughts. Thankfully, before I was tempted to explore these ideas further, Abdul’s phone rang, and he woke up.

He spoke lively with someone in Farsi (his cousin, I guess) and I found it really hot listening to him speak in his native tongue. I think I was falling in love with him at this point.

[To be continued]