So if you have read my stories on Islamiccock, you know that they are all based on true events. Depending on your predilections, you may read them and wonder how it is possible to have such exciting encounters with Muslim men – it all seems so easy. Readers have contacted me to ask why I like to be treated as a whore by these men and also how they can get some of the same. The first question is hard to answer and, to be frank, I can’t.
Here, I will give a little more context to my youth that may have shaped my preference for Muslim men, but I am not a psychologist, nor am I desperate to delve into my psyche to find out the answer (if it were indeed possible). I have no wish to change my desires.
To the second point, I may burst a few bubbles. I write from my own experience only, so I am not saying it’s the same for all, but for me it has never been as easy as going to a country, Tunisia say, and sex just presents itself. More often, I have had to work to find it and create opportunities, sometimes with risk. Others may tell a different story: this is mine.
When I read any piece of literature, I tend to form an idea of the writer. I wonder what mental picture the readers make of me: this lover of Muslim men who likes to serve them, worship their feet, eat their asses, and take their seed whenever and wherever he can get it. You may think me weak, sad, vulnerable…or even lucky. Well, I am none of these things. I am a hard-working director of a business and I have a lot of people who report to me. I can be assertive when I want to be, and I can be kind and generous – just like most people.
I am very protective of the people with whom I work and won’t hesitate to challenge anyone who tries to take advantage of them – or me. In my personal life, I can be either sociable or withdrawn, depending on my mood and energy. In short, I am a pretty ordinary man in his now mid-years. Few people around me would know what I like to do with men – Muslim men. Certainly, they know that I admire them and desire them, but not what happens when I am alone with them. The truth of the matter for me is that I chose a difficult path, loving Islamic men. It can lead to loneliness and disappointment.
As a young man, I adored the times I could please a Muslim master, take his cock into my body and receive his hot and holy seed. As we get older, there is a need for more than just the raw sex, yet it is highly unlikely that a Muslim man will enter into a same-sex relationship in public, let alone a marriage, so we are left with either being used less and less – a natural consequence of aging; looking for other solutions, seeking out non-Muslims – which defeats the object – or abstention. I still meet men and enjoy surrendering my body to them, but the time will come when they look for younger asses to use.
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I was aware of my sexuality at a young age, maybe ten or eleven. I was excited by boys at school, in the swimming pool or on the sports field. I also knew that I was not attracted to effeminate boys – though never really ‘masculine’, I was never camp either. I lusted after boys who were strong, not necessarily physically, but in attitude. I was a skinny boy and this made me a target for bullies.
Once, at the age of around fourteen, two large boys pinned me down on the grass and one sat on me. I didn’t put up a fight; instead, I laid there and got an erection. The boy on top, realised this, shot up and spread word about that I was a ‘queer’. Boys would tease me by asking if I wanted to suck them off or if they could piss on me. Rather than be offended, I found I secretly enjoyed what they were saying and the pictures they painted in my mind. I don’t know why I enjoyed this. There were Muslim boys in my school and I fantasised about them more than any others.
They developed faster, had black hair that grew on their bodies, and they seemed mysterious, dominant and confident. My teenage masturbation sessions were largely with them in mind. I dreamed that one of the boys, Ali, would sit on me and feed me his cock then I would swallow huge quantities of his semen, even though I had no idea yet what that would be like; but it didn’t happen in reality.
I felt ugly at school, mainly due to the bullying, I imagine. Whilst it was a turn-on, it also knocked my self-confidence at that most sensitive of times in life and I became reclusive. I didn’t go out much and used to read a lot on my own and dream of being a servant to men like Ali.
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Suddenly, and unexpectedly, everything changed. My parents took me to Agadir in Morocco for a holiday. The events outlined in ‘Initiation in Agadir’ unfolded. Like all my stories, for the sake of pace, I edited the facts down somewhat. In fact, when I became aware that I was attractive to Moroccan men: masculine, ‘straight’ men – they didn’t really make any attempt to hide it – I revelled in the attention and took risks, leaving the hotel at night to go to the old town. If you have read the story, parts one and two, you will know what happened. Once the sex had started, things unfolded pretty much as I have written, but there were a few abandoned attempts at going downtown; I backed out halfway more than once. The first time I snuck out of the hotel, as I walked through the dark streets, wearing tight white shorts, a fat old man grabbed my arm and took me to a doorway where he told me he was going to fuck me. This frightened me; I pulled away from him as a lady came past and I ran back to the hotel. The fact that I went out again alone at night is testament that I wanted to take the chances I knew I had to take. I may not have ever had them again, had I not tried to get them. To have served, and then to have my virginity taken by, the older shopkeeper sounds seedy and unsavoury to some, I’m sure, but it awoke such a passion in me that has never left; by the time I was taking four Muslim cocks just a day later, one after the other, including the monster penis of Menani, I was a changed person. I left Morocco feeling much taller -those men had not only awakened my sexuality, they had given me a new-found confidence. I really believe they gave me the impetus to go out into the world and believe in myself.
If you, like me, crave Muslim cock and want to be dominated by them, we walk a risky path. After my initial euphoria in Morocco, it became clear that it would not be that easy always. In ‘Ten Days in Tunisia’, I told the story of holiday where sex was all around me. None of what I said was false but I missed out plenty too. Misjudging signs can lead to scary moments.
In a taxi, I thought the driver was being suggestive towards me, when he was only being friendly and tactile, so when I asked if he wanted to take me somewhere quiet, he stopped the car, got out and literally pulled me out by the arm, humiliating me to passers-by. On another occasion, I sucked off a man on the beach at night, only for him to tell me he was going to the police because homosexuality was illegal.
In order to convince me this was true, he called a number and a policeman appeared a few minutes later, while the man on the beach held my wrist so hard it gave me bruising. After I gave them all the money I had, they escorted me back to my hotel and waited for me to withdraw even more, while they stood outside.
There is a hotel in Sousse local men and boys frequent to pick up foreign men. Flattered that a very macho, hairy man told me he wanted to fill me with his cum, I went off with him to a secluded place on the beach, only to find a local friend appeared behind me and took me away. This was a notorious practice, he said: once your clothes are off, they run off with them and only hand them back for money. In Egypt, three men asked me to go to ‘Banana Island’ on the Nile where they all wanted to fuck me. Once again, a friend intervened with a warning that it was a scam. There were many such events, but you get the gist.
In ‘Serving Iqbal’, I recounted a night servicing a Pakistani taxi driver. I allude to my modest success rate in the story, and it’s worth noting that, for every time I have tried the technique outlined in the story, in almost all nothing happened at all. To desire Muslim men is a game of patience and often frustration and, at worst, a risky endeavour.
I certainly don’t want to say to any readers that we should be scared to seek out our Gods; all I want to say is that we must not look through rose-tinted spectacles: there are good and bad people everywhere and in all walks of life. My stories are written for erotic purposes, but they are not the full picture. Exercise caution and common sense and you can avoid some of the more hair-raising moments I have experienced, through trial and error.
Please also remember that homosexual practices are illegal in Islamic countries; be aware of the risks. To be candid, paradoxically I have found it much easier to find men in countries where the law is tighter, and the risk far greater. There is no comparison between Turkey (relatively liberal) and, say, Saudi Arabia, let alone Iran where nationals caught in the act face the death penalty. If you spend enough time in most Muslim countries, though, you start to discover a sub-culture where gay sex is tolerated, if not accepted, as long as the Muslim is active and penetrates the non-Muslim, which is good news for most of us lovers of Islamic cock.
What’s more, in all my travels throughout the Muslim world, I have encountered some surprising situations: a wealthy businessman who kept two late-teen Siberian male prostitutes in his house for pleasure (and everyone knew about them) and, an extraordinary party I was invited to by a high-ranking local in one of the stricter countries (I am not saying which…. I still go there), where rich Arab men sat around, smoking shisha, ordering a greasy-looking pimp to select East European boys from a swimming pool, taking them to rooms in the massive house to be fucked. Shockingly, the host later confided in me that he had secret video cameras installed and could enjoy watching what had gone on in the rooms afterward. I didn’t stay long at that party: that was one risk too many.
If you are a Muslim man devotee and have found long-lasting love, I salute you. In my story, ‘The Men from Mali’, I tell how I did fall in love with a man whom I was serving. The sex was so sensual and perfect but I was foolish to believe he could ever feel the same about me– it’s not just the heart; it’s the mindset. It is simply not acceptable to the majority of Muslim men. I allowed myself to believe, just briefly, and it was a wonderful dream. I am destined to be an obedient servant.
I have more stories to tell: a trip to Nigeria on business just before the pandemic has the makings of a new erotic tale. Meanwhile, I hope you have enjoyed peering through the window into my stories. I would love to hear yours.
WRITTEN BY: ADAM WEST
Based on true events.