Salt and bitter lemon

My language partner is a skinny 21-year old boy from the town As-Salt (and no; Salt doesn’t mean “salt” in English). Let’s call him Musa. It’s a bright and fairly warm day, so we decide to sit down on a wooden bench in the middle of the busy University of Jordan campus. Musa tells me he wants to be a lawyer (because they make money) but now he is studying English, because it’s useful. Musa thinks English sucks, in fact, he thinks studying sucks, period.
He is a rather shy young gentleman, which, however, doesn’t stop him from constantly scanning the area for girls; during our conversation, his eyes constantly wander off towards groups of passing ladies. And when his prayers are heard and a girl finally looks back at him, he immediately looks the other way. And I swear: even blushes.
So what about the ladies Musa? Well, he’s never kissed one, but he’s dying to. Like most 21-year olds, that’s pretty much what occupies his mind. When asked about marriage, he says that when the time is right (in a couple of years, maybe next year) his mom will round up a fine selection of goods, sorry women that he could then choose from. He trusts his mother. Now, isn’t that nice?
I think I am going to have to switch language partner.