This is a sample chapter from Terrorists Downlow, one of the books of the Str8 Studs Downlow series. It is also available in Volume 9 of the series compilations for less than a dollar per story.
Way back in high school, one of my friends came to class one day saying he was a Muslim now. Everything about him changed — the music, the weed and booze, the women and basketball, even the way he talked, as though he suddenly remembered he was a college professor. He found Allah in the middle of the night, he said.
So he began spending his days preaching on street corners. I made fun of him back then, just like all my friends did. We never thought it would happen to us. It wasn’t possible to believe in something so fully it was reasonable to devote your entire life to it. What could be more important, I thought back then, than doing whatever you wanted, whatever made you feel good? I was nominally Christian, but I didn’t follow it. It was the window-dressing to my life, and informed little more than my choice of neck bling.
But then it did happen to me, exactly what I was sure would never happen. Allah spoke to me, and there was no doubt in my mind that Islam was for me. It didn’t even occur to me to question my newfound faith until a couple days later, I was so excited by it I couldn’t stop explaining my conversion to everyone I saw. I was in prison on some minor charge, just one black man among many, one more stupid nigga behind bars waiting for the next legal shoe to drop. One of the few niceties prisons still allow is religion, and I pretended to be Muslim just to get out of my cell a few more hours a week.
But I heard an imam speak and everything changed. The world seemed brighter, more clear. Questions had answers. Effects had causes. Problems had solutions. I was smarter; people treated me better. Things were perfect in a way I never thought possible. All because I let Allah into my life.
In prison, I followed Imam Hasbali. It was he who gave me my Islamic name, Abiz. It was he who made sure I got parole and lined me up with a group on the outside so I could continue my studies. It was he who turned my life around, from one where I lived in the filthiest gutters to one where I lived a life of glory for Allah. He gave me everything, or to be more precise, he taught me to submit to Allah, who gives me everything I could want.
And it was Imam Hasbali who set me up with Rami, a Palestinian fellow with a ropy muscled frame and grizzled jaw. A thick scar jagged across his forehead to his nose, crossing his left eyes, which I thought must have been damn near torn out by whatever caused the scar. Though he was a lean man, smaller than me, he had an intimidating aura developed, I imagined, in the apartheid prison camps of Palestine.
He was a taciturn man, giving me little information beyond that we were to go to Somalia to join an Islamic prayer group there. But first, our plane would stop in Rome, and we would have to spend the night in a hotel. I felt like an elite businessman on a trip — I had literally never stayed in a hotel in my life, and Imam Hasbali sprung for a nice one, where he thought we were less likely to run into temptations like prostitutes and drugs.
“There are many ways to sin in a city like Rome. This is a decadent and disgusting place,” Rami said. “It is dangerous for a believing Muslim to be there. We should stay in the room all night. Do not see the nightlife here, or it may corrupt your soul. When every place around you is a jihad, the struggle can only be won by staying still.”
A part of me wanted to be corrupted, remembering how I used to love cheap women and flowing booze. But I knew that giving in to that corner of my heart was what had gotten me locked up in the first place. Evil was a hollow pleasure, fleeting, and sin always seemed better beforehand than afterwards. I had replaced those urges with submission to Allah now, and I didn’t want to go back to the way things were. I was glad to be getting out of prison with a sense of direction, a purpose in life. I didn’t even know what this “prayer camp” was going to be like, but I knew it was Allah’s will for me to go there.
We settled down in the hotel room. I was glad to have one more night on a comfortable bed, because I was sure it would be less comfortable at this Islamic camp. But I was still glad to be going. There would be fewer temptations there, so if I could make it all the way to Somalia, I’d have a better chance of winning my own personal jihad. Allah would not let a sacred trip like this be disrupted by disaster or evil, I thought, for this was me fulfilling my Islamic fate. Remaining pure was a necessity.
I was going to miss sex. That was the one vice I really was not sure I could live without. They said Allah would give you strength, but I wasn’t feeling any strength just yet. Every moment I wasn’t thinking of Allah I was battling back an overwhelming sense of lustiness.
In prison I had tried to remain celibate, even from masturbation. But there are a lot of gay men behind bars, and I even had a few gay cellmates who wanted nothing more than to suck on my dick for hours. I had enjoyed downlow action before my conversion — there had always been fags back in the ghetto of my teenage years too — and I was nervous going somewhere where all forms of sexual release were banned. There would be no gay men at an Islamic training camp, I was certain of that, so I would no longer have the temptation to succumb to downlow sin. But there would also be no women.
When I shared my concerns with Rami, he said, “Being gay is a slap in Allah’s face. You are right to hate homosexuality.” Then he paused, “But if it is a choice between fornicating with a prostitute and two otherwise pure men assisting each other, it is halal.”
I was shocked, sure at first that I had misheard him. Imam Hasbali had never mentioned anything about that. A lot of black men go downlow behind bars, and they even suck dick or take it in the ass, but Imam Hasbali had condemned that. He said that if a man feels he has no choice but to seek sexual relief, he should masturbate, and then cleanse himself and ask forgiveness. Any other outlet spreads your sin to another person, he had said, and that made sense to me.
“Imam Tabaih says it,” Rami said. “It is better for good Muslim men to pleasure each other because we can be sure that we will both repent right away. A woman of loose morals will not, and then we will be contributing to her damnation.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said, still not entirely convinced.
“You do not have to do it,” Rami said. I sensed that he wanted me to say yes or no, that this was his way of inviting me to participate. He probably didn’t want to admit he was willing if I wasn’t.
Like virtually all the black men in my neighborhood, I had gone downlow with my friends a few times in high school. There was even a faggot who used to pay us twenty bucks to suck our dicks. So I said, “I’ll do it. I was wondering how we was gonna be living with a bunch of men and no fucking around.”
“It is not easy. But Imam Tabaih knows many families in Somalia, and he arranges marriages whenever a girl is available,” Rami said.
“That’s good. I never really thought I’d get married after everything that’s happened in my life.”
“All Muslim men must get married. It is Allah’s will,” Rami said. He pause and bit his lip. “Are you ready to do this? To trade oral sexing?”
“Yeah, fine, it’s not a big deal for me. I did it before submitting myself to Allah’s will,” I said. “Even in prison a few times after converting, I… strayed.”
“Tell Imam Tabaih,” he said. “He will explain to you how it is okay.” He took off his shirt, revealing a lithe, muscled chest covered with a mat of thick, short hairs. I had never been with such a hairy man, so I hesitated before taking my own shirt off.
“Who goes first?” I said. “Or at the same time?” I undid the belt of my jeans and let my black cock flop against my thigh. I was glad to see it was bigger than Rami’s uncircumcised manhood, which flopped like a sweaty garden hose between his legs.
“I will go first,” Rami said. He hesitated too when he saw my dick, no doubt intimidated by its size. But he still dived onto it like an old pro, letting the whole shaft slip into his throat. The warmth and moisture of his tongue seeped into me, and I relaxed immediately.
A lout retching sound emanated from his throat, and Rami spit my dick back out. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He opened his mouth and I pushed my dick inside. His body bucked again as though he was vomiting, but this time he made it through and let his tongue lap against the sweat-slickened shaft of my cock.
Awkward at first, the blowjob got a little better as it went. I didn’t really like him choking and gagging on it — that was what I loved most about blowjobs, especially from fags and prison bitches, before finding Islam, but now I wished we had a more pleasant way to get off. I didn’t want to feel like I was raping him.
“Use yo’ tongue a little more, man,” I said, losing my wizened Islamic tone for the street speech I had grown up with, “Get down on it. If we gonna go downlow, let’s do it right.”
That seemed to do the trick, and his tongue slathered spit along my shaft. The smell of precum leaking out of my dick filled the air, as finally I got hard. I remembered this feeling from my downlow days, that moment when I finally managed to convince myself it could be a girl on my cock. His tongue slicked the tip of my dick, and I moaned.
He moaned too, in disgust, and started using one hand to jack me off at the base. Placing one hand on the back of his head, I steadied him so I could work my dick into his throat.
I felt my climax coming and knew I should have cum in my own hand, because if I made him swallow my load, he would want me to do the same. But the last couple times I had had a male blowjob was behind bars, where bitches and fags always swallowed, so a part of me was habituated to it. Besides, it was always so much more satisfying to cum down somebody’s throat.
My load spurted down his gullet, and he choked. Semen leaked out the side of his cheeks and dripped down his chest. I sank onto the bed as I let my dick plop out, leaving a trail of saliva and cum between my cock and Rami’s face.
He screamed in disgust, pushed me out of the way and ran into the bathroom. I heard water begin to run as I gathered my breath and laid back on the bed. The afterglow of my orgasm suffused me, and I almost forgot how worried I was about having sinned. I quickly said a prayer and performed wushu to cleanse myself, though I knew I’d be doing it again in a few minutes — what if I did before Rami got back out of the bathroom? I couldn’t die without cleansing myself.
That was a surprisingly good blowjob, I thought, then my heart sank as I realized it was my turn, and Rami was going to want to reassert his masculinity. He was going to be at least as rough about it as me. He was going to fuck my face and no doubt cum down my throat. I’d experienced both those things before, during a nasty period of my incarceration, when I was housed with a bunch of Aryans. But I had no desire to go through it again.
He was quiet, still as taciturn as always, and stood by the bed until I got on my knees. He didn’t seem to want to tell me what to do, maybe trying to deny to himself that it was his choice, trying to prove to Allah that he was as straight as they came. I couldn’t welsh out on it now, no matter how much I wanted to — Allah hates liars and cheats at least as much as fags, after all.
His body hair was disgusting. I felt like I would lose my head in that forest of fur, and though I knew he had showered just an hour or so ago, I was worried he would smell like sweat and manhood. And he did, though it wasn’t an overpowering smell, and it was covered up by cheap floral soap.
“Come on, don’t just look at it,” Rami said softly. He peered down at me and raised his eyebrows.
I took his long dick in my mouth and sucked it down. The smell was overpowering once I planted my face in his crotch, as though an entire armpit’s worth of sweat clung to each hair. His pubic hair was only slightly curlier than his other body hair, and ti was so thick and bushy I discovered that his dick was much bigger than it seemed. I probably couldn’t have deepthroated it if I had seen its size right away, I would have felt intimidated by it. But since half of its length was concealed by his hair, it was already all the way down my throat when it got hard and stretched to its full length.
Choking and coughing, I tried to pull away but his hands were on the back of my head, holding me in place. His cock swelled and pulsated inside me, and tears came to my eyes.
He let out a guttural moan, almost a ululation. He muttered in Arabic, too low for me to understand even if my Arabic wasn’t so rudimentary.
I clutched his hairy asscheeks, slapping at them, trying to communicate to him that I was suffocating. I hated the feel of his hairy flesh beneath my fingers, but it was the only way I could think to get his attention.
Still he was relentless, not even seeming to notice my teeth on his shaft, though my mouth was so full I couldn’t clamp down in the slightest. My mind raced, wondering if he was doing permanent damage to my jaw.
“I will be very quick,” he said, “Just a couple more seconds.”
Panicking, sure I was about to pass out, I jabbed one of my fingers into his asshole. It was hot and slimy, and he yelped right away.
But he didn’t pull out, or even slow down. Precum shot down my throat, and I was glad to see that it would soon be over.
Finally his whole body shook, every muscle contorting and flexing. My body did the same, but because of lack of oxygen, fear and disgust. I was retching around his cock, thick wads of spit bursting past my lips and sticking to his dense pubic bush.
His dick was so deep in my stomach I couldn’t even feel or taste the semen as it sprayed into me, and for that I was glad. But when he eventually let go of my head, and I gasped for air, his cock slid past my tongue and the flavor of bile-and-cum clung to my senses.
“You… bastard,” I said through deep, heaving breaths.
He screwed up his eyebrows. “I fucked your throat the same way you did mine. Besides, that is the quickest way to do it. The quicker we cum, the quicker we can beg forgiveness and cleanse ourselves. Come, let us perform wushu before Allah decides we are faggots.”