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Welcome to the continuing saga of The Muslim Romance Trilogy, Part Two Actress/comedian/realtor Julie--our confused heroine in Part One of the Muslim Romance Trilogy: The Year I Learned to Text; Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim in My Basement?-- returns and is now sixty-two. Her Marriage Islam Style husband is forty. Her chemical addiction to the black-eyed, always-tardy Persian Prince remains insatiable, as her two loyal dogs and opinionated cat watch it all go down. When the honeymooners' salacious pillow talk turns to Taliban training camps, dropping walls on homosexuals, and killing Republican presidents, conservative Julie must choose between love of country and the greatest physical and spiritual connection she's ever known.
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Dear Reader,Part Two of The Muslim Romance Trilogy will answer those burning questions left over from Part One, The Year I Learned to Text; Why Am I Having Sex with a Muslim in My Basement? Part One has been re-released in a 2nd edition with a new cover! For all my fabulous readers of Parts One and Two, I apologize for my procrastination. Rum and coke in place and my butt in the chair! I have begun Part Three: The Arab Sprung; While a Muslim Sleeps in the White House. Certainly, the title alone should get me arrested. Please visit my author page for updates on the banning of my books and the publishing antics of Part Three, along with the re-publication (soon) of Parts One and Two. I will not be censored. UPDATE: Here is the prologue of Part Three, which is NOW AVAILABLE!
Veterans Day, November 11, 2013
Current Price of Moving On: $34,499
Novel No. 1, $3,500
New Front Gate,$1,500
One Pretentious Billboard at Sunset and Vine, $4,200
New Neck, $8,000
Novel No. 2, $3,200
Electronic cigarettes and nicotine oil, $292
Online Dating $160
Escape to Ireland, $2,200
COCO Mademoiselle by Chanel (two bottles) $175
Reams of paper, ink, highlighter, $227
Who is he carelessly fucking now? I ponder the constantly recurring null question.
You broke up with him before he broke up with you; remember?
And as I flip myself to one side and peak at the clock, I quickly jerk the covers up and over my head. I am sure that right now in this pre-dawn moment, he is fucking no one, lest he has moved to another time zone, Afghanistan perhaps, as he had portended. It was not Ali's custom to be up and out and away from his mother before nine a.m.
Under the silently spinning, dust free Whistle While You Work and Cleanliness is Next to Godliness plastic palmed ceiling fan, where once he had shamed me--clean, clean, clean, you sad, lonely woman--in this room now chilled with the slightest hint of a California winter, I awake still in darkness to what I hope to be the end of international jet leg.
Always contemplating the current degree of my insanity, I tug the twisted moist, hot-flashed sheet tightly over my shoulder in the realization that, yes, foolish woman, even a trip to the Emerald Isle in search of a rugged potato farmer has failed to yield a diversion from your most intimate yearnings.
In that sweet, hot summer of 2010, did it truly take my very own personal Aladdin just a few days less than Mickey Rourke's 9½ Weeks to knock me from my imaginary tower of significance in his mystery life to a puddle of humiliation at his sandaled feet?
Just as the ghost of Emily Bronte's wild and cursed Cathy taunted Heathcliff from the fairy caves of Penistone Crag, I hear him whispering to me outside the draped sheers of the bedroom window, beyond the metal trellis tossed with barren jasmine vines, beyond the bungalow walkway leading to the sleeping streets of Hollywood.
Perhaps it is from behind the dormant vegetable garden of Mr. and Mr. Gaylord, the tidy newly married neighbors, that my charming, black-eyed, chisel chinned Middle Eastern lover chastises me in a haunting whisper.
Julie, Julie, Julie
Don't you miss me yet?
So today, the three-year anniversary marking the execution of a ruinous and feckless relationship and the beginning of my sexual hiatus--time enough alone to vainly publish the first two volumes of the longest love letter ever written for the entire judgmental world to read--Ali has pierced the fourth wall of my pitiful lifestage to thrill me, presumably, posthumously once again.
The clock radio still quiet, the time five fifty-five, tossing to find the perfect spot, I pull the cool satin comforter up over my camisole-cupped breasts. Lying on my back, I settle in deeper. Bill Nob on the KFI early morning Los Angeles talk show would soon mumble out his fractured sarcastic version of the noxious news of the week, prattling on through minor static at the prescribed alarm time of six-thirty. No sense in starting my day yet, although two overstuffed suitcases urging my immediate procrastinated attention lay sprawled open on my living room floor.
Ali is here beside me under the sheet asking me timidly in his culturally appropriate ta'arouf manner if I am ready.
And, of course, Iam.
The pastel gold-framed Jesus watercolor watching over me, my legs opened, I skim the toenails of my right foot under and across the top sheet, where it stops at the bump on the bed. Brute comments with a staccato snore and a robust spurt onto his blankie.The old Maltese with minimal teeth and morning breath regularly ignores such occasions of my lustful despair, and the seductive spell has been broken for only a shameful moment, as my hand furtively takes position.
I am so easy; a masturbatory slut. While I am battery poor, evidenced by my various solar-powered Victorian garden lights, timed porch candles, and the Sony Walkman tape player, there is no need for the Energizer bunny in the bedroom.
I seem to regularly walk about with a sweet burning somewhere between the descending crux of the V and the very point at which my plush inner thighs begin. On mornings when he returns to me, I awake with a painful swelling that is only soothed by gently soothing fingertips through satin pajama bottoms. He's just taken a shower, dried himself with my rubber ducky bath towel and smells of his favorite blue Rainsoft water conditioner soap. The long black hair swept about his neck glistens. Within a very short time, with his promise that he will enter me at the beginning of my climax, the gentle soothing fingers work themselves into a frenzy of sorts as I turn my face to his, my eager thin walls painfully pulsating in the empty chamber, and beg for him to fill me.
But he never does. His arms never encircle me. His fingers never slip into the cotton cami to sweetly twist an erect nipple. His thigh never crosses over my tummy to trap me in place. But it is his right hand, delicate and light, that so cleverly parts the moist meaty folds to find the little man in the boat and bring him safely and exquisitely to shore. This is my fantasy of what never was, because I am the director and I call the shots.
I brought forth the morning's ablution with hysterical tears and the accompanying pitiful sob.
Ali, Ali, Ali
Don't you miss me yet?
I am truly mad.
A verified reader's review of Part I on my Amazon Author's page:
I started this book yesterday and am now TRYING to
slow down, because I'm almost done. Jumped back on
Amazon to order the next two and praying she is writing
as we speak. I have had moments where I am pissed at her,
but I love her honesty. This book will hold your attention
and make u laugh. This woman did not get the memo that we're not supposed to let them know how crazy we are.
For Paige and all the beautiful, emotionally starved, vulnerable, lovable women, Part Three of The Muslim Romance Trilogy.
Juliet Montague is a California native born and raised in a once lovely valley at the base of the San Bernardino National Forest. After four decades of marriages, births, and divorces she began her reinvention in Hollywood. A retired court stenographer, Ms. Montague is now a working actor. This is her second novel.
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