Zahir and Florence in Ottawa

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“A Muslim guy can’t be bisexual, Zahir Abiodun, the way I see it, a man can either be gay or straight, I think you’re just greedy and dishonest, you lie to your faith and worst of all, you lied to me,” said my ex-girlfriend Sharon Rosenberg, the day I decided to tell her that I was a switch-hitter. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I am a bisexual man of African descent. I recently decided to tell the woman I love the truth about myself. What followed was nothing short of a nightmare…

A lot of brothers go on and on about how wonderful white women are, and how open-minded and accepting they are. Those same brothers dog our sisters as loud, bossy and obnoxious. I’m here to set the record straight, pun intended. Good women come in all hues, and so do bad women. My favorite, not-so-tolerant, sinfully sexy blonde-haired white chick dumped me after I shared with her a certain hidden truth about myself. So much for honesty as the best policy, eh?

Sharon Rosenberg and I were sitting inside the food court at the Saint Laurent Mall in the east end of Ottawa, Ontario. At this hour, the place was already full of people. Lots of old white people come to the mall really early, and they like to walk around then sit and have their coffee. I chose to meet with Sharon here because this mall has always been special to us. After all, it is where we met. So much for nostalgia, Sharon was definitely not buying what I was selling…

“Sorry you feel that way, Sharon,” I said, and I looked into the frosty blue eyes of the six-foot-tall, blonde-haired and athletic, downright majestic young woman with whom I’d shared the past couple of years. We met while I went into the Fido store located inside the Saint Laurent Shopping Center, and Sharon signed me up for a new cellphone plan…and gave me her digits. I was intrigued by the tall, tomboyish white chick with the short blonde hair and the big ass. So I gave her a call the very next day. The rest, as they say, is history.

A lot of people in the City of Ottawa have an issue with interracial couples, especially when the couple in question happens to be a black man with a woman of the Caucasian persuasion. I’m six-foot-three, a bit chubby, dark-skinned and smooth-shaven, completely void of facial hair, or hair of any kind above the neck, save for my eyebrows. That’s how I like it and I shave every week. I’m used to people staring at me due to my dark skin, and the fact that as a masculine West African male, I make white Canadians feel uncomfortable.

Sharon Rosenberg was like a breath of fresh air into this dreary life of mine. The tall, blonde-haired gal from Prince Edward Island welcomed me into her life, and after three months of dating, I even met her parents, Jill and Liam Rosenberg of Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. They were really nice people, actually. I had nightmares about being grilled by Sharon’s father, whom I imagined probably disagreed with her choice of mate, but the guy was actually nice. I fell in love with Sharon Rosenberg and wanted her to be my wife, but sadly, it was not meant to be…

“Can’t believe I wasted my time with a guy who can’t decide whether he wants to suck dick or eat pussy,” Sharon said, smiling wickedly, as a final parting shot before walking away. I stood there, and watched Sharon walk away, practically sashaying that thick white ass of hers. Damn, that ass looked so good in those dark blue shorts of hers. The thought of never hitting it again made me almost whimper in despair. Almost…

“C’est la vie,” I said to myself as I finished my coffee, then got up and walked away. What else could I do but move on? As I walked through the mall, I took a look at things. New faces, old faces, new stores, nothing out of the ordinary. I felt pained as I walked past the HMV store, where Sharon and I kissed for the first time while checking out the movie Focus, starring Will Smith and that Australian blonde cutie, Margot Robbie. Good times, folks. Good times. Too bad it’s all over…

“Zahir, is that you?” came a loud feminine voice, startling me out of my murky thoughts, and I looked up and saw a somewhat familiar but nevertheless pretty face. Said face belonged to Florence Mbida, a tall, curvy, thirtysomething Cameroonian woman whom I met last week, under less than ideal circumstances, to tell you the absolute and honest truth.

Alright, enough mystery on my part. I went to the Canadian Border Services Agency office located in the east end of Ottawa for my monthly checkup since I’m a refugee claimant living in Ontario, Canada, while awaiting a decision on my permanent residency application. I am twenty seven years old. I came to Canada at the age of twenty two. I’ve got a work permit and a study permit, but that’s it. Long story, I’ll tell you about it another time. Suffice to say that the Canadian government’s strong-arm tactics in dealing with people like me hasn’t made me their biggest fan, but what choice did I have?

Anyhow, that’s how Kadıköy Grup Escort I met the lovely Florence “Flo” Mbida, the super fine sister from Cameroon who looked gorgeous in a long-sleeved blue shirt, tight white jeans and a stylish head wrap. I do love my African sisters, and this tall, dark chocolate cutie with the pretty face, nice figure and thick round ass appealed to me immensely. The fact that Flo appeared to be in her mid-thirties didn’t bother me one bit. I looked at the smiling African MILF as she came near me, and greeted her happily.

“Flo, it is good to see you,” I replied pleasantly, and held out my hand, which the lovely lady shook. Florence launched into a lengthy tirade about the CBSA and the way they treated us, and for some reason, I ended up taking her upstairs and getting a cup of coffee with her. What did I have to lose by talking to Flo? The lady looked good, and to be fair, I could use the company, after the horrid morning I’d had…

“So, Zahir, how come a fine brother like yourself doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Flo asked me, a sly smile on her beautiful face, as she sipped her coffee. I looked at Flo and smiled thoughtfully. Seriously, what is it with women and asking a brother twenty one questions? When I first met Flo, she told me she’d gotten into the CBSA’s crosshairs because she’d moved from Montreal to Ottawa for family reasons, but neglected to tell them. And here she was flirting with me. What’s up with that?

“Flo, my dear sister, I’m just an old-fashioned brother, a simple farm boy from Kano City, Nigeria, I can’t handle these crazy ladies out here,” I said with a sad little smile and a shake of my head. Yes, I am lying through my teeth, but Flo seemed to be buying it. The fine sister from Cameroon, who was definitely almost a decade older than me, gently laid her hand on mine.

“You see, that’s your mistake? Them white girls weren’t made for you, my brother, you need an African woman,” Flo said with a wink, and I smiled and nodded. For some reason, I pulled out my cell phone and showed Flo a picture of my now ex-girlfriend Sharon Rosenberg and I dancing while attending the annual Carivibe festival, and Flo looked at it thoughtfully, then handed me back my cell phone.

“That’s my ex-girlfriend, Sharon, we split a while ago,” I said, by way of explanation. Yes, I am lying through my teeth but Sharon is part of the past now. I like to let go of the past. Besides, Sharon dumped me about an hour ago, and I’ve heard people refer to an hour ago as a while, so I don’t feel bad for using the term. Don’t like it? Sue my Nigerian ass.

“This foolish white gal let go of a good man, Zahir, you’re good-looking, you’re studying law at the University of Ottawa, you can definitely do better than her,” Flo said confidently, and I saw something in those golden brown eyes of hers which made me smile. I gently touched her hand, and gave it a squeeze. This woman was definitely feeling me, and I’ve never been the type of guy to let a good opportunity slide…

“Damn, I wish I’d met you sooner,” I said to Flo, who smiled and nodded. Just like that, I asked her to go for a walk around the mall with me, and Flo agreed. It so happens that Flo lives in the Vanier area, and the Saint Laurent Mall is part of her stomping grounds. We walked around the mall, and then headed for the OC Transpo bus station, since I had class to get to.

“Do keep in touch, Mr. Zahir,” a smiling Flo said to me, after giving me her digits. I smiled and nodded, punching the numbers into my cell phone and saving them. As I got ready to leave, I extended my hand toward Flo, but the fine West African MILF had other ideas. Flo batted my hand away and instead kissed me on the cheek, in the African manner. I was surprised, but gave Flo a hug, smirking and holding onto her a bit too long, which made her smile…

“Oh I promise I will,” I replied, and Flo winked at me. Before I could get another word out, a familiar face walked by. Said face belonged to Sharon Rosenberg, my ex-girlfriend who dumped me about an hour ago. I smiled at her the way I imagined the Devil himself might, and Sharon, who was walking with a pudgy Asian dude, turned beet red. Yes, Sharon saw me with Flo but she didn’t say anything. What could she say anyway?

Flo and I exited the mall, crossed the street and got on our respective buses. I got on the 95 bus going to Barrhaven via downtown, intent on getting off at the University of Ottawa campus, and Flo got on the 18 bus going to Rideau via Vanier. I was smiling to myself the entire ride, folks. I sent Flo a text, thanking her for a wonderful meeting, and she sent back a smiley face immediately. Hmmm, it’s good to be back in black!

It’s not easy being a Law student at the University of Ottawa while paying international fees because the Canadian government is dragging its feet when it comes to processing my permanent residence application on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. Kadıköy Manken Escort I came to Canada as a refugee, after the Islamist sect Boko Haram killed my parents, Amin and Noor Abiodun of Kano City, Nigeria. One night, they stormed our neighborhood and killed a lot of people. It was a horrific event which I would never forget…

You know what’s messed up? I’m a Muslim by birth, and so were my parents, but these radical bozos who call themselves Boko Haram killed us anyways, and they also killed both Christians and Muslims in our hometown. They’re not fighting for Islam. Far from it. I’ll tell you what they are, ladies and gentlemen. They’re lunatics. I tried to explain this to Citizenship And Immigration Canada, but they didn’t give a damn about the details…

The Conservative government of Stephen Harper didn’t want to give me clemency, but I’m hoping, well, praying at this point, that the new Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and his Liberals will prove more lenient. Otherwise I’ll get sent back to Nigeria. If that happens, I’m going to be a dead man walking. I don’t think the nutcases of Boko Haram will look kindly upon a bisexual Nigerian Muslim man, do you? Yeah, that’s what I thought…

“Hey, Zahir, you seem like you got a lot on your mind,” said a deep masculine voice, startling the hell out of me as I walked out of my Criminal Law class. I looked up to see my good pal Benjamin Guillaume. Six feet tall, with light brown skin, curly dark hair and lime-green eyes, Benjamin is a gorgeous mixed stud born of a Haitian immigrant father and a French Canadian mother. Finest specimen of man I’ve seen in ages…

I do love my brothers, the more exotic the better. A lot of gay and bisexual black men I’ve seen in the City of Ottawa chase white guys and avoid the brothers. Me? I have nothing against gay and bisexual white guys, but I prefer my black men. Mixed men are okay too. Benjamin plays rugby for the University of Ottawa while studying civil engineering, and has that rare combination of good looks, intelligence and dick that I simply can’t resist…

Benjamin and I met while studying in the campus library, and really hit it off. Benjamin is dating a tall, dark-haired and big-bottomed Lebanese chick named Marianne Karam, and he’s a closet bisexual. We’ve had a lot of fun together, though I haven’t seen much of him recently. As a bisexual guy, I totally understand. Lots of bisexual guys prefer women, and only occasionally deal with other guys.

Like Benjamin, I only deal with other bisexual guys because gay guys are clingy, mouthy and prone to spill one’s secrets. They love to blab to other gay guys and those female friends with whom they hang out. They’re not to be trusted, believe me. Some of you might not approve of what I’m saying but I don’t give a fuck. I know what I’m talking about, believe me. And I don’t apologize for it.

“Sharon dumped me,” I said wistfully, and Benjamin looked at me, concern filling those lime-green eyes of his. For a moment, while looking at Benjamin, I felt pained, for I once imagined myself marrying Sharon Rosenberg and having mixed-race sons and daughters with her, but sadly, it was not to be. Benjamin laid his hand on my shoulder and smiled, and we began walking together.

“I’m sorry about Sharon, Zahir, but trust me, you don’t need her,” Benjamin said, and I nodded. We walked to Benjamin’s apartment, a brownstone building located right next to the Sandy Hill Community Center. We went inside, and I sat in the living room. Benjamin got me a glass of wine and I sipped it while relaxing. Damn it, what a day I’ve had! Benjamin went to the washroom, and when he came back, I looked at him and grinned from ear to ear…

For Benjamin Guillaume was gloriously naked, and I feasted my eyes on his tall, muscular, handsome and virile body. I got up and went to him, and Benjamin and I shared a deep, passionate kiss. I joined him in the shower, and undressed at a speed that would have rendered The Flash himself speechless. Just like that, Benjamin and I began making love…

“I need you, Benji,” I said to Benjamin, and he smiled and kissed me, and we got our freak on under the warm water. I ran my hands all over Benjamin’s muscular, strong body. I tentatively reached for his dick and stroked it, and marveled at its length and thickness. Benjamin’s dick is uncircumcised, and even though I’m a Muslim man, it doesn’t bother me none. I got on my knees and took Benjamin’s dick into my mouth. Just like that, I began pleasing my favorite guy…

“I’ve definitely missed you, my dear Zahir,” Benjamin whispered, leaning against the tiled wall as I sucked his dick. I got him nice and hard, and when Benjamin finally came, I drank his seed. I like the way my man smells and tastes. Afterwards, Benjamin bent me over the washroom counter, rolled a condom on his dick and began fucking me. I welcomed the feel of his hard dick up my ass. Gripping my hips, Benjamin fucked Kadıköy Masöz Escort me with slow, deep strokes.

“Fuck my ass real hard, Benji, ” I said to Benjamin, who grinned and happily obliged me. The mixed stud fucked me real good, tearing my ass with his hard, merciless dick for a good half an hour. At some point, Benjamin lay flat on his living room’s carpeted floor and I rode him, loving the feel of his dick in my ass. A more intense experience I couldn’t describe, seriously.

What do I mean by that, ladies and gentlemen? Please let me explain. Benjamin’s dick is long and thick and a bit curved, which makes it feel amazing when I’m riding it. A curved dick can really get in there, fill the ass up and hit the prostate, and that makes a gay or bisexual man simply lose it, in a good way. I lasted about half an hour before I tapped out. Good times…

“Don’t fret over Sharon, my dude, you’re smart and handsome, you’ll find a better woman in no time,” Benjamin said to me, before kissing me, after we showered and went for a quick jog. The Sandy Hill neighborhood is fairly diverse, but people still stared at Benjamin and I because we’re a pair of tall, good-looking young black men in athletic wear. That’s life in Canada for you. If you’re not white, they stare at your in a hostile manner, and either flash a fake smile or quickly look away when you dare stare back…

“I’ll be just fine,” I said to Benjamin, and I gave him a brother-man hug, and then went to the nearby bus station, and finally began my long trek home. I live near Jeanne D’Arc, in the Orleans suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. Going to school is a long commute for me, believe me. To complicate my life further, I work for a security company that likes to send me to guard places in Kanata, Bayshore, Stitsville, South Keys and other distant spots. Welcome to my life…

That night, as I lay on my bed in my apartment, a rented basement in a townhouse on Burgundy Avenue, I thought of the day’s events. Sharon Rosenberg is out of my life, my dear Benjamin and I are back on track, and Florence is on the horizon. I smiled to myself and thanked the Maker of All Things for His blessings. Does it surprise you? The fact that a bisexual Nigerian Muslim man like myself prays? I know I’m a sinner. I still believe in The Lord. You can hate me, you can persecute me, but you can’t stop me from praying…

The next day, I saw that I had a lot of texts from Flo, and I was flattered and gave her a call. We talked on the phone, and agreed to meet at Soleil Des Iles, a nice little Haitian restaurant located in Vanier. I like Vanier. The place is full of minorities of all hues, mostly Africans, Caribbean people and Arabs. I feel at home there. I don’t get stared at as much. A lot of people speak ill of Vanier but I like it. Lots of nice people there, I swear…

“Careful with that Haitian food, my dear Zahir, it has a habit of putting people to sleep,” Flo cautioned, as we sat inside Soleil Des Iles and dined together. Flo looked absolutely hot in a crimson flowery shirt and dark blue jeans that were way too tight and made her already big booty seem like it was ready to pop. Hot damn, Flo is a hot woman. I looked alright in a green silk shirt, black silk pants and black Timberland boots. I was having fun in the restaurant, sitting and talking to Flo…

“Some like it hot, hot Haitian food, hot West African women, it’s definitely a way of life, you know?” I said to Flo, who looked at me and smiled. I bit into a forkful of goat meat, and savored it. My plate of white rice, brown bean sauce and goat meat was absolutely tasty. I love Haitian food. Hmmm, I like Haitian men too, especially Benjamin, but I didn’t tell Flo that. Not because I’m dishonest but because it’s none of her damn business, that’s why…

“The question is, Mr. Zahir, can you take the heat?” Flo asked, and I felt her knee brush up against mine under the table. I smiled at Flo, who grinned, and then I felt something else on my thigh. The lovely lady’s fearless hand, that’s what. Soleil Des Iles was packed with patrons, a hodgepodge of Africans, Arabs, and a few white Canadians. Yet Flo was bold enough to lay her hand on my thigh under the table, and I locked eyes with her.

“Yes Flo, I can take the heat,” I said to Flo, who grinned, then leaned closer. Looking into my eyes, Flo told me that if I finished my meal real quick, she’d take me home and give me something tastier to feast on me. This she did while giving me the let’s-get-busy look, which both women and men instinctively understand. I took Flo’s hand and brought it to my lips. Flo actually blushed, and giggled, and then, we wrapped up our meals, I paid the old Haitian guy at the counter, and then we left.

“Lovely place you’ve got there,” I said to Flo as I looked at her apartment, a nice two-bedroom spot located inside a brownstone building on Donald Street. I turned my back on her as I looked out the window. The apartment overlooked the nearby park, and it was actually nice. I don’t know what Flo does, though she mentioned studying accounting at the University of Montreal, but she must do well for herself. Who knew there were such nice places in Vanier? That’ll teach me to judge a neighborhood based solely on its reputation…

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