Whore of Judea

I experienced a subtle carbon monoxide poisoning here—my best last-minute papers came to life in this haze, and somehow, I kept returning. Misha was with me—Michael, but he was always Misha to me. His presence should have been a comfort, yet it wasn’t. It felt like a reminder of the strange, cheap friendships I’d made with men; with myself. And I couldn’t tell him about that brief encounter with his own flesh and blood.

Misha, the only white face here besides the Slavic girls on shift. I, nearly the only uncovered woman besides them. The hijabis stared, daubed in layers of cosmetics, sharp gazes dissecting, not outright judgmental but pointed. Misha remained oblivious.

Old men sprawled across chairs, bloated bellies resting on backgammon boards, as if ignoring the pounding, poorly mixed Future, Drake, Migos—those loud airhorns. No Abdel Halim Hafez, no Shadia, no Amr Diab to soothe the ears. Yet their eyes drifted, flickering toward me, casual yet invasive, stripping layers with each glance.

Paranoia? Maybe. The club life had marked me, but so what? Whore or whore-adjacent, it’s hardly tragic. Who cares? Sex work—just that, a job, stripped of the old mystique. We’re back to Corinthian temples, sacred bodies for Aphrodite. Or Weimar. Gold Rush towns. The same, inevitable roles, cycling again. Perhaps the natural state is to sell sex or bear children.

And honestly, I’d choose either over credentialing myself to death. I had no idea what I was doing at school. We barely even catch syphilis anymore. I can’t get pregnant. This IUD benefits men more than it does women—letting them creampie carefree, with zero responsibility. What a scam. Either we should pull a Lysistrata and lock our legs for good, or shackle these guys with kids and never set foot in an office again.

This hookah bar was a softer mirror of the club—strobe lights, velvet seats, jacquard curtains, thick smoke strangling the air, making me feel faint. Sugary mint tea congealed and curdled in my gut.

I hated how people originating from those parts of the world liked to stare at anything and everything without the impunity of embarrassment.

“Misha, I should head home now,” I said, feigning nonchalance. “I have an exam tomorrow. I’ll just order an Uber.”

Outside, I waited for my ride. I glanced at the cars in the lot.

Ferrari 488 Pista — Lamborghini Aventador SVJ — McLaren 720S — Porsche 911 Turbo S — Rolls-Royce Wraith — Bentley Continental GT — Aston Martin DBS Superleggera — Bugatti Chiron.

Saudi students lounged nearby, engineering types from NC State, casual in their excess. I admired their unapologetic materialism, grounded as it was in cold reality, and yet—something felt gross about it. I tried liking the thought of giving up romance for full stability—frozen in gold bangles and Van Cleef locks, chained to a Hästens mattress, showered with oud-drenched excess. But I couldn’t muster it—the image of a waddling sheikh turning those Oran sandals on me, without the elegance of a civilized, debonair man who would know how to beat, felt closer to home than thrill. It would be too much like my father. Too Arab.

Maybe, I thought, Gulf Muslims were too Protestant for me, too insistent on surface piety without the depth of the Protestant work ethic, which I still found too ascetic for my liking but more respectable than the former. Because, after all, Islam had emerged as the first great protest. In the seventh century, it had rejected Trinitarianism’s holy trifecta—Father, Son, Holy Spirit—and back to pure oneness, tawhid. Rejection of the divine sonship of Jesus—a return to undiluted divinity. The first protestants, indeed, without need for the work ethic of their later counterparts.

The silver Toyota Camry pulled up, and I climbed in, opting for the front seat. I’d gotten into the habit of sitting up front—I foolishly didn’t want Uber drivers to feel like chauffeurs.

“Hey there, you must be ___,” the driver greeted me by name, flashing a familiar, easy grin. Dirty-dish blonde hair, sage-green eyes, freckles scattered across his tawny skin. He wore pleated slacks and a seersucker button-down, somehow formal and casual all at once. “I’m Miles. Headed to Stinson Street, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“How’s your night going?” he asked, glancing over.

“Not bad, just tired,” I replied. “What about you?”

“Four hours into my shift. Keeps me busy.” He paused, eyeing me again. “Wait—don’t I know you from somewhere? You’re a sophomore at UNC, right?”

“Yeah.” I was searching my memory now too. “Are you a student? Exchange, maybe? You have an accent... British?”

“Kurdish-Kosovar mom, British dad. Grew up just outside London. I’m here on exchange from LSE.”

“Oh, right. Got it.” I racked my brain, pretty sure I’d seen him at a Consortium of Middle Eastern Studies event or maybe just hanging around the Pit.

We fell quiet for a moment, and a chill crept through the cracked window. “Hey, would you mind rolling up the windows? And maybe turning on the heat?”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Want the heated seats on too?” He flipped a switch without waiting for my answer.

A moment later, he glanced over again, studying me. “Yeah, now I remember. You’re the Egyptian girl, right?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and?”

“Nothing, just noticed,” he said with a half-smile. His gaze lingered. “Your forearms—so smooth. Do you wax them?”

“No, I shave,” I admitted, hiding a wince. “Every day. So I can be silky and not like a Sasquatch.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes forward. “You know, they look nice. Arab women seem to do that a lot, shaving their arms. It’s sad.”

"Uh, thanks," I muttered.

A pause. Then he said, “Did you convert to Judaism? I heard you did. People say you’re always hanging around Hillel and dating older men.”

“No,” I looked down, a mix of embarrassment and disappointment tightening in my chest. I wasn’t even done with the conversion yet, and word was already spreading—especially in the Middle Eastern Studies department.

“Do you have a preference?” Miles asked casually. “Circumcised or uncircumcised?”

“Um…”

He grinned. “I’m guessing you’ve tried both?”