PART ONE OF THE MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY
The
Year I Learned to Text
Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim
in My Basement?
Whoever said that politics and religion don’t mix forgot to throw
hot sex into the equation.
When Julie, a celibate post-menopausal
conservative, reinventing herself in Hollywood as an actor/comedian/realtor,
takes on a handsome Persian Muslim twenty-two years her junior as her boy toy,
she eagerly takes
flight on a magic carpet ride into the addictive chemistry of unconditional
love, which eventually consumes her.
Between auditions, working on
television sitcoms and movies, driving lookie-loos about the city, caring for
her two dogs and one persnickety cat, performing her stand-up routine, and vain
attempts at keeping her familial relationships from collapsing, Julie, a
retired court reporter and mother of three, slips into her busy life erotic
meetings in her basement with Ali, who claims to be an Internet marketing
entrepreneur. In the light of scented candles, Julie comes of age and is
awakened sexually by the black-eyed bad boy, who does not want to touch her in
certain places, and who ritualistically washes his penis in her bathroom sink
immediately after contact. Too soon he becomes her life, a life she senses has
come and gone too soon. Late in life, she has learned patience: Ali is always
two hours late to their trysts. He is on Persian time.
The Hollywood Bungalow Mews, in which
Julie lives, is a recurring character; each resident having his and her opinion
of the goings on at Julie’s Spanish
six hundred forty foot brothel. However, no one has ever witnessed Ali’s
comings and goings, which leads Julie to wonder if, in deed, she hasn’t simply
invented him, in light of the ongoing political climate and The War on Terror.
When he invites her to join him to live
in a cave in Afghanistan, she begins to believe his anti-American pillow talk.
An American citizen born in Iran and an honor graduate from UCLA, Ali bemuses
our heroine with the contradictions of his Islamic religion, his hypochondria,
and the exact whereabouts of his apartment.
Julie feeds her bewilderment with hours
spent Googling everything Middle
Eastern, always a Cuba Libra and cigarette to steady her. Quickly she learns
more about Islam than she ever wanted to know. Her new knowledge of Female
Genital Mutilation has her legs crossed in a clenched position.
Ali’s hatred toward anything American
begins to frighten Julie, who dreams of contacting the FBI or the CIA in an attempt
to save him from himself, Natasha Fatale and friends close at hand.
Her immediate family—a sympathetic
runway model and television actress daughter, a successful know-it-all divorced
sister, and an obnoxious, Pollyanna mother on the edge of dementia— each have
their own advice to stir up the cauldron of Julie’s frustrations.
In an effort to loosen from his grasp,
Julie buys a second home to renovate, a foreclosed vintage cabin in the
mountains, to which she runs in her feeble attempts to find herself in between
mini-breakups from the Muslim sociopath, who continually bounces back into her
Hollywood bungalow basement.
Julie at last frees herself, and after
one year of soul-searching and never-before experienced depression, she finds
him once again on her doorstep asking for her hand in Marriage Islam Style, the threat of three more wives looming on the
sand-swept horizon.
Can Julie walk away?
The end of The Year I Learned to Text; Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim in My
Basement? finds our heroine trapped in the hopeful hopelessness of sexual
and emotional addiction, the Oxytocin Love Drug flooding her veins; the dumbing
dopamine addling her brain. Will there be peace in this world beginning with just
one wannabe terrorist and one romantic fool?
(Part
Two of the MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY: JIHAD
HONEYMOON IN HOLLYWOOD; NOT WITHOUT MY DOGS.
Recounts all four of Julie’s honeymoons as we enjoy the current
horrendous honeymoon of Mr. and Mrs. Terrorist.)
(Part
Three of the MUSLIM ROMANCE TRILOGY: THE
ARAB SPRUNG, WHILE MUSLIMS SLEEP IN THE WHITE HOUSE
The last look at Julie while she attempts to replace the magic foot
that fit so damned well in her glass slipper, current events tripping her at
every turn in the way.
No comments:
Post a Comment