Wrecking Havoc

It has been a while since I have written a NY story! I had a temporary memory relapse and all of a sudden I forgot them all :S (Sarah is going to kill me now) but they are coming back to me.
Anyway.Earlier in our trip to NYC we didn’t know where we will be staying. Everyone was all over the tri-state area and my dad thought it ridiculous, so, in all his wisdom, he congregated us to stay over in Marriot Marquis hotel until the issue was resolved. Of course, if I knew how to orgasm back then, I would have done so – I was that excited.

You see, there is something about hotels that appeal to me. It isn’t the plush carpet or the view or the fact that there are people who do your beds and do your laundry and everything. And nevermind the TV with as few channels as possible, with all the good stuff on pay-per-view (it took me 3 years to know it wasn’t paper-view). It isn’t about the built-in closet or the shoe polishers or EVEN the fluffy beds.

It was all about the bathroom. Yes, the lovely marble bathrooms, with the generous sink (good for later purposes when I became older), amazingly enormous titanic mammoth of a mirror, and a luxurious bathtub. And oh my God… the Grohe taps and knobs and faucets. And the wonderfully multifunctional shower, with 873,715 different modes that make the water leave it with grace, and artistically pour over your body, effectively doing what that mode is supposed to do.

Of course, though, all these bathgasms would wait till later. I spent my younger years turning the knob on “massage”, which effectively pours out the water in short bursts, which, when viewed from afar, looked like machine gun bullets.

Which is precisely what I needed.

I would firstly align all bottles within 900 kilometers into lovely single files to form a grid of victims. I would align them on the generous sink and floor, and, for extra challenge, on hangers and other floating devices.

I would then play war. Yes, it was an epic water battle between me – with my powerful shower machine gun – and the hopelessly hapless bottles with no self defence mechanism (later on though I would get shampoo in my eyes and weep for days). So after the stage is set, I let loose of the water and within minutes I have the whole Bottle Population annihalated. It is genocide I tell you. I scream with glee as I watch bottle after bottle topple over, often spilling their contents on the miraculously unslippery floor (when dry of course). I would then rearrange them and repeat as needed, until my whole family is dying to pee or have suspected I grew up enough to take longer showers. I wouldn’t be doing that for years to come.

So anyway, after my bathgasms are over with, Sarah would have arrived and we would go about and do what all children in a hotel do: Wreak havoc. She and I would ride the elevator to the 91,736th floor (40th in real life) and would then find ourselves some foliage. We would then extract all the little brown pebbles that coat the soil, and head over to the atrium. From there, we would be dropping our projectiles onto the people dining and lounging below. It was a unique experience – especially thrilling when you get to have a pebble thrown into a glass or hit the stupid piano woman. They literally INVITE you to aim at them. Who told them to turn the open-side of the glass up? It is illogical and just screams to us kids to go bully.

And we’d never get caught. We always switch floors and locations. But then when we started spitting, well, that was another story :P

200,000 Books

“200 thousand books,” Sarah told me with lots of pride.

I wasn’t with her at all, mentally, when she said this blasphemous hypocrisy. My eyes were fixed on the librarian.

But let’s rewind a little bit.

On a random day, like all unlabeled, unnamed days when you are on holiday, Sarah and I happened to go to a local and small public library. We had earlier decided that day it would be a Day of Profound Enlightenment and there would be no better way to spend it than lounging around with an elite class of kids engaged in exhaustive reading of obsolete books ranging from pictorial to printed atrocities – the kind where the paper is so thin and the ink so thick that the sentences simply merge into a blob of blackness – and bask in the light of the enormous invisible bulbs that floated above our heads as we discovered new words and concepts that were not in the least bit pronounceable or imaginable.

I forgot the library’s name, but I am sure it contained the word Astoria, along with the district name and/or a president’s name, then generically ending with the words Public Library as a beacon to attract the underprivileged for free reading.

To be honest though, the library was of formidable size. Either that or I was unfathomably small, the only thing possibly smaller than me were Sarah the Midget and chairs specifically designed for hobbits. There were rows and rows of books, which, I think, were arranged by the color of the cover, starting oddly from yellow and ending in white and then black. Sarah explained to me that the prestigious books are always colored in maroon, black or white, and that as the colors became more vibrant, the easier they became to read and the shade of the color represented the age group – the more fluorescent the shade of color was, the more it was catered to toddlers.

Strangely, though, toddlers’ books were almost exclusively adorned with a white cover. I thought that they were indeed prestigious, for no human being other than toddlers can understand a book that contained as many words as there are pages in that book. They probably have an imagination so vivid and alien that they would effortlessly translate these unrelated words into an epic science fiction saga involving bears, chairs and other ornaments not exceeding 5 sides.

We went to the mildly colored section.

I grabbed a navy blue book, whose title contained the word Amusement Park and I just assumed it would be one of those Senior High books that everyone at school read about passionate love, break ups, menstrual cycles and occasional mishaps in locker rooms. As I opened the book, to my surprise, sprouted a large display of well arranged cartons that brought the said amusement park to life, in 3D form. The thickness of the book has finally been attributed. I shoved it back and followed Sarah around. She obviously knew what she was doing.

“I want to get a book on colonial Spain,” she said. I knew what Spain meant. I thought the first word was related to a certain person or some strange UFO sighting. “So how many books have you read till now?”

I was struck with this question. I knew Sarah was a prodigy. She started reading menus in restaurants when she was still a toddler. Her first word consisted of 18 syllables in some foreign language that sounded like Latin. Everyone in the family had been forever praising her extreme intelligence and fluency in English as well as unremarkable knowledge of Arabic obscenities. I simply could not compete with her. She would make me her laughingstock and the butt of all her jokes for generations to come.

“I don’t know,” I said, of course, as always. I never seemed to know anything, and it never contributed to my self-image. “How much did you read?”

It was then, at that very moment, that the most horrendous of all living creatures appeared before us. She was a mix of many different animals, none of which were human. She was unusually large, like a giant hippo or a small blue whale, with legs of course. Her breasts were so voluptuous they had their own gravitational pull, which clumped them together into multi layered blobs of blubber and undrunk milk enough to feed 10 generations of kids at an orphanage. Her body mass could only be seen in its entirety if she were in the far horizon or if you had eyes that can view in 180 degrees, and, even then, you would require a fish-eye effect in order to contain her within your frame of sight without having your eyes to skew sideways for a clearer view. I could only assume that she was born in this library and raised here, for there was no possible way out she could fit in any door. Her head looked like a piece of dragon, complete with scaly eyes, and for unexplained reasons she almost sprouted horns from her temples.

If I still had that book with the amusement park, I would be able to identify most of the animals in it to be presented in one form or another in this monstrosity.

“200 thousand books,” Sarah told me with lots of pride.

I wasn’t with her at all, mentally, when she said this blasphemous hypocrisy. My eyes were fixed on the librarian.

Sarah looked at me looking at the woman. From my height and the woman’s unusually large breasts, my line of sight landed on only two options.

“Kinan, Jesus Christ you are DISGUSTING. Oh My God she is a LIBRARIAN for the love of shit GET A LIFE!!!” she accused me, and ordering me to get a life in as many days as tripled of what I stayed in NY.

“I wasn’t looking WILLINGLY she occupied my WHOLE view!” I defended.

“Unbelievable. Every time I attempt to have a normal conversation with you, you end up being stupid. You never read any books did you?”

I couldn’t answer. Gravity was too intense.

We never returned there again.

Sarah Looked Hot All Wet part 2

“Come on chicken legs!” she said.

I didn’t listen. I embraced the rain. It was cold, cold rain, and the sky had become a darker hue of purple. We had to rush home, but I didn’t want to go home. I loved the rain.

She pedaled ahead of me, and I had to follow suit otherwise I would have lost my way back to the house. The rain was pouring hard enough to even cloud my vision. And the fact that I wore eye glasses did not help my perception of my surroundings in the least bit.

Remember the movie “Singing in the Rain”? I actually never got to watch it until three weeks ago. It was a brilliant movie. I loved the acting, the singing, the atmsophere. The love story was intense. The best part was close to the end where the two were on the stairs of the stage, the lady looking ethereal with her long, free, angelic gown and the surreal atmosphere. I also love the fact this has nothing to do with my post.

Not now anyway.

The road dragged on. A lightning blade sliced through the ominous clouds above, thundering the air. The rain hit hard my face and body. I could no longer ride with enough speed to follow Sarah. I told her to go easy a little bit.

“If you tilt sideways the rain won’t hit your face in the front,” she instructed. Of course, why would it? It didn’t occur to me. I had to swerve left and right as I biked.

But I enjoyed the rain. I was drenched far beyond drying. My gray shorts and white shirt turned darker as they soaked. I became heavier. The bike became heavier.

“Wait up!” I shouted. She didn’t listen; she kept forcing her way through the heavy rain. I put some effort to up my speed, but, with all the water on my glasses, I didn’t see the end of the pavement. I clumsily stumbled but steadied the bike; my glasses, however, just fell off. Not being able to stop to find them, I just carried on without them.

I should have lazik eye surgery sometime soon. It is a completely different feeling.

We eventually rounded up around the house, discarded our bikes in the backyard and headed to the warm inside. Or, maybe, it just seemed warm relative to the freezing rain and wind.

It was then that I realized that Sarah was wet.

It isn’t like I am that mentally handicapped to not think of the obvious, it just did not occur to me that she would get wet (if this sentence doesn’t make sense don’t try to decipher it). Women never get wet. Not when men want them to. But she looked… different.

I was 13.

She wasn’t the perfect figure. But why would a 13 year old care anyway? This is the best chance. Two soaked individuals, one juvenile 13 and the other around 10, in a hot kitchen.

There was only the orange juice bottle and some leftover cereal on the kitchen table. This is going to be really really hot.

I think it was in those few months in the States that I actually felt I have testosterone. After I turned 14 and went back to my regular, boring life, it took me 2 more years to self experiment and 5 years after that to have the greatest dream of all: Banging Angelina Jolie TWICE (once in a void and once on a kitchen table, with no cereal), and satisfy her (and myself) both times.

Nothing sexier than beating Brad in his game.

“Oh my God Sarah, you are wet!” I stupidly highlight the fact to her.

“Well, like, I don’t know Kinan, I think I THINK I was outside in the RAIN. And you KNOW it is made of WATER, so, like, of COURSE I will be WET DUUUUUUUUUH!” She noted that I am stupid, in a plainly American way.

She grabbed a towel and flanked it over her head.

“Well I just think that you’re kinda, I mean, wet,” where the hell was I going with this? Note to women: I am still that stupid.

“Kinaaaaan, ewwwwwwww, you are DISGUSTING! Get a LIFE!” She instructed. Note to women: I am still told to get a life. She stomped upstairs.

Oh, she wants to play hard to get now huh? Well, the bedrooms are upstairs, and so are the bathrooms and showers. It is going to be awesome.

Note to men: I had not seen porn before then.

I followed her upstairs. This is going to be a blast. Of course, I had no idea what sex is, much less how to do it. I don’t even recall I had an erection, and even if I did, it would take me some years to know what to do with it.

I went up anyway. I am sure she would show me the ropes. Even if she were 10, who cares! That idiot Tom/Bob thing had a crush on her… it is either me or him. And I had to take this opportunity.

Of course I am now speaking in retrospective.

I went up.

“It suddenly rained on us!” she said. To whom?

I continued up the stairs. Surely this must be the female way of attracting inseminating men. First by complaining, to draw attention, then by playing victim, to draw sympathy and sex.

Of course. This had to be it. I couldn’t possibly be wrong. She had been giving me hints so many times and I just overlooked them. I played the role of the forbidden fruit. She wanted me and bad. Really bad.

It is all text book.

I reached upstairs.

She was talking to her dad.

Sarah Looked Hot All Wet part 1

One of the many often lovely yet disturbing facts about NY is that the weather changes several times in a single day. What starts off as a sunny day with brilliant sunshine changes into a depressing thunderstorm followed by a tornado warning and then back to sunny, some fog, then it clears, followed by another thunderstorm, then it clears.

Of course all this happens in 2 hours.

Not having a template of clothes to wear for a given weather, NYans simply wear whatever they feel comfortable with (men going out shirtless or women out with only bras is perfectly fine) and they just deal with the weather as it comes.

I was completely bedazzled by the very phenomenon that weather actually CHANGES. Having lived in KSA for a considerable period of my childhood, I only grew up knowing the following four seasons: Hot Humid Summer, Hot Summer, Cool Summer, Cool Humid Summer. The idea that I can witness all icons of the weather channel in one day was not something my brain found logical (keep in mind of course my brain functions on its own set of logic that has nothing to do with actual logic).

Sarah and I (yes yes I was her boy toy get over it) went to a general store one day to grab a gift for my sister after she had her operation. The store was several blocks away from our house (omg, did I just say OUR house?) and there were many churches and Burger Kings in between. We always went to places with said outlets because, if we needed sanctuary, we would head for a church (remember this is pre-Dan Brown) and if we were ever hungry (which we always were) there would be a good junk food place to eat.

As a side note, I always found it interesting that I always ordered two Big King sandwiches and a Hershey’s Pie. In the US though the Big King is as big as a Big Mac so unroll your tongue and snap back your jaw.

Anyway, when we entered the store it was PERFECTLY sunny and there was NO POSSIBLE way of it being otherwise. We emerged from the store because it had to close at 6 PM. And it was raining. Pretty hard. Big fat blots of water, more like arrows, piercing everything on earth. I swear I was so worried to step outside and have my head decapitated by water.

I could already see the headlines: Juvenile Shot to Death by Water Bullets: God Pleads Not Guilty

The store would not allow us back in, and, in some miraculous feat I still have to understand, everyone in the store just vanished, despite the fact there was only one main door. Everyone in the store dematerialized, the lights went off, and Sarah, myself, and a stupid gift stood out beneath some ridiculous hood waiting for the rain to end.

But it didn’t. In fact, it only got worse, but maybe that was because it also got darker, and, as with everything when it is dark, things seem more sinister.

Stupid human psychology.

We grabbed our bikes, took a deep breath, and pedaled out into the waterfire.

It was warfare. I felt like a soldier in the frontlines. I felt like Neo in the 3rd Matrix movie during the final fight with the agent (of course I did not know of Neo in 1997). There was water everywhere. I worried the streets would be clogged with water; I anticipated people fleeing, others crawling out of their floating cars; I expected an enormous wave to just topple everything and I would drown, and be eaten by Flipper.

My sister was not worth all this.

Don’t tell her – she will ruin my Xbox. She is going insane with me having 4 different consoles corded up to the TV.

But it was anything but all that.

It was the most brilliant experience I ever had. In the wild anyway. Well not the wild, but I mean something to do with nature. Ok even better when I didn’t pee for 36 hours on a field trip then let it all go. Well, almost like that.

I could go on forever describing how amazing it was. I will in my next post.

So wait for part two :D

Adam’s Apple

Although I was good at table tennis, I was never good at the actual full-scale sport. As elegant and graceful as I may seem when attempting to strike the tennis ball, I discovered that, for me at least, tennis should be played vertically rather than on the ground’s surface. I don’t care if they have to string someone up and hang them from a window. I just can’t seem to be able to swat the ball in a nice curve across the net.

One of the kids who played tennis back in the States went by the name of Tom (although I think it was Bob but Tom is just easier to type). He was incredibly short and chubby, in stark contrast to my elongated and slim being. I was definite he was jealous, especially that he was the one who called me Sarah’s boy toy.

I later discovered he had a crush on her.

Anyway, I played with the school’s team even though I was not registered at the school nor did I even pay the trainers for their valiant efforts to suppress their urge to swat my head out of court. I got in because “Sarah said so” and it was the first time Americans got introduced to the term “wasta” (in return though I had to let them use my dad’s mobile phone to call their girlfriends).

That day we were playing double team. Me and Sarah against Tom and Melissa. They looked ridiculous as Melissa was twice as tall as Tom. Sarah and I didn’t look better either. She wore a horrendous pink skirt and t-shirt while I wore white shorts and a white t-shirt (both of which ended up being see-through). Being “the man” (LoL) I had to serve the ball.

It took 4 balls on the pine tree until I got it right. Two balls were almost mine.


I hit Tom’s head with a ball.

He didn’t take it lightly.

As the game progressed I let Sarah take the shots, unless I really really had to or in case I had to pull off a special move. They were my signature moves that sent the ball zipping through the infinite vertical as Tom and Melissa hysterically tried to squint and see where the hell the ball is, only to be blinded by the sun and miss the ball entirely and we score. They called it cheating, but hey, there are no “outs” in tennis for the vertical shots. Right? The shots all remained in the rectangular horizontal perimeter.

Tom felt agitated by my shots, coupled with the fact that I was playing with Sarah (and, as I was behind her, I got to see her butt and legs and she moved, which, if any of you know me, probably was not the case). My final two serves hit both Tom and Melissa and anyone watching would swear I was born to be a tennis ball sniper.

When the game ended, Tom was flaming red and heating. Melissa was absolutely nonchalant as she thought we were all insignificant to play against in the first place. Admittedly, she was the best in school. But not good enough to avoid my shots hitting her abdomen.

As was customary, we had to “shake hands” with the other team.

Then it happened.


He wanted to exact his revenge.

I didn’t see it coming.

He served a ball.

At 3 meters away.

And it hit my throat.

My Adam’s Apple went inside entirely and then bulged out and tripled it’s size (now everyone knows why I can pull off an elevator-movement with it). I was out of breath and almost fainted. I liked the attention though, everyone was around me making sure I was alright (funny though no one bothered to do anything other than asking if I was alright, and I had to waste my breaths on answering them).

I could see Tom’s face. Glowing with glee and joy over his triumphant revenge. He thought he had it all now. My voice got forever scarred (this is also why I sound like a smoking goat) and I would never be able to woo Sarah ever again.

He had it all, he thought.

Until Sarah’s tennis racket grilled into his face.