0 comments/ 4139 views/ 1 favorites From Lebanon With Love By: Samuelx Always thank the Creator for His blessings instead of complaining. I think if more people remembered to do that daily, their lives would be better. My name is Elijah Montoya-Stephens, and I’m a proud member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I am happily married to a wonderful woman, Isabelle Marwah-Stephens and we have a son together, our little angel Michael. I recently earned my MBA from Suffolk University and I am a managing partner at Sandstone Realty. We have locations in Brockton, Randolph, Boston, Bridgewater and as of last month, Plymouth. Life is good, but once upon a time, things were really murky and chaotic in my life. I was born in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts, to a Puerto Rican mother and African-American father. My mother, Elisabeth Montoya, initially raised me on her own because my father, Brockton Police patrolman Elroy Stephens died on the line of duty six months after I was born. My life is one packed with tragedies. Always has been from the get-go. That’s just my lot in life and I’ve long since learned to accept it. You’ve got to roll with the punches, ladies and gentlemen. Statistics would have you believe terrible things about young men from certain ethnic backgrounds who grew up without their fathers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Especially since I had the most wonderful father figure anyone could ever have. I’m talking of course about UPS driver Michael Jenkins, my stepfather. He moved to New England from his hometown of Bethel Town, Jamaica, ten years before he came into our lives. A more loving man and father figure couldn’t be found anywhere. Michael Jenkins raised me as though I were his own. He married my mother two years after we were first introduced. When my twin half-sisters Jacqueline and Roxana were born a year later, our family was complete. In 2008, I graduated from Brockton High School and won an academic scholarship to Northeastern University in Boston. That’s when everything started to go wrong. You see, I’d grown up in a fairly protective environment. School and the library along with the YMCA during the week, church on weekends. That’s what filled my days back in high school. Once I set foot on the Northeastern University campus, I experienced a brand new world. A world of parties, hot girls, NCAA basketball games, and more parties. While on campus, I met this lovely young woman named Zainab Hassan, and she took my breath away. At first glance I thought Zainab was a Latina, one of my mother’s people. You should have seen her, man. Five feet eleven inches tall, curvy and oh-so fine, with light bronze skin, curly black hair and almond-shaped golden brown eyes. Yes, this lady was definitely easy on the eyes. Would you believe that she walked up to ME? Now, I’m a decent-looking guy, but typically, girls as hot as her don’t just walk up to me. I’m five-foot-nine, which is decent height for a guy, I guess, but I’ve often wished I were bigger and taller. I’m only a hundred and fifty eight pounds. That’s not good. In high school, I took up wrestling, which was cool. It definitely helped me with my confidence. Still, the fact that I’ve always liked tall girls and they tend to go for taller guys also vexes me but there’s nothing I can do about it. I was nervous when Zainab Hassan approached me, and spoke to me in Arabic. I mean, I was in the food court, eating lunch solo and she just walked up to me and started talking…in a language I didn’t understand. Sorry ma’am I don’t understand you, I managed to squeak out with a polite if nervous smile. Sorry I thought you were Moroccan, the ravishing brunette said. I’m half black and half Hispanic, so people are often asking me about my ethnicity. I’ve been mistaken for a lot of things, never Moroccan, though. Where is this chick from? That’s what I wondered. Oh, well. Only one way to find out, isn’t it? I looked at her, smiled and introduced myself. After a brief hesitation, she shook my hand and told me her name. Thus I was introduced to Zainab Hassan, an international student from the City of Jounieh, somewhere in the Republic of Lebanon. That’s really cool, I said, looking at her while nodding as if I knew zip about her country of origin. I was smitten with Zainab at first sight, as you can imagine. Especially since she joined me for lunch. Everyone looked at us. Yup, that’s right, the tall, gorgeous Arab woman is sitting with the skinny brother in the tracksuit. We learned quite a bit about each other that day. Zainab was new to the States, that much I guessed by her accent. Oh, and the lady wasn’t just a pretty face. She had brains up the Yin Yang. Zainab came to Northeastern to study business administration, and she’s the recipient of a scholarship by the Lebanese Ministry of Education which sponsors talented Lebanese students abroad. Brains, beauty and booty. Looks like I hit the Jackpot without even trying, eh? Zainab and I began hanging out, on the NEU campus and later, we hung out off-campus. The gal was curious about Boston and since I’d been here my whole life, I set out to show her the best of what the Bean had to offer. I took her to watch the Celtics play, and we were together the night they defeated the Los Angeles Lakers and became NBA champions. Zainab devoured everything American life had to offer, and she told me she was falling in love with Boston. That’s okay, because a certain Bostonian had fallen in love with her. Me. Zainab liked me, that much I could tell. Although shy and reticent at first, Zainab grew more comfortable with me as the year rolled on. We walked through Boston Common together, hand in hand. We went to the movies and restaurants together. I even introduced her to my family. My folks were smitten with her. My twin sisters Jacqueline and Roxana typically don’t like the girls I date ( I went through a phase when I was really into ghetto chicks ) but they liked Zainab. I liked Zainab, and she liked me. So what’s wrong? Don’t ask me how but I sensed some reluctance on Zainab’s part. As if she was holding back somehow. I asked her about it repeatedly and she kept telling me everything was fine. We had no barriers between us. We stayed overnight in each other’s dorms, and made passionate love. I knew every inch of that fantastic body of hers. I love the smell and taste of Zainab first thing in the morning. I would lick and kiss her over, flicking my tongue over the areolas of her tits while fingering her hairy, sweet pussy. I loved making love to Zainab, my desert queen, my Arabian wild flower as I called her in some of my drunken-love moments. The passion in that woman simply amazed me. Sometimes, as we made love, I felt like she was trying to kill using sex. I mean, Zainab would suck my dick like there was no tomorrow, greedily swallowing the whole thing. Sometimes she even fingered my ass. I delighted in putting her on all fours and spanking her thick, shapely Lebanese booty while slamming my dick into her. Oh, yeah. We shared some passionate nights together, Zainab and I. Sadly, all the passion in the world can’t salvage a relationship based on lies or half-truths. Zainab and I come from different worlds but we’d been lying to ourselves from the beginning. We told ourselves that our differences didn’t matter. Many interracial and interfaith couples run into those same problems. You can’t run from the truth. Either you face it head on and overcome the adversities that come your way, or you fall apart. The end came sooner than I expected. One day, Zainab sat me down in our favorite little restaurant, Au Bon Pain in Boston’s Back Bay, and told me the awful truth. Zainab looked me in the eyes and told me that she felt like our relationship couldn’t go anywhere. When I asked her why, she told me that she’s Muslim, and her family wouldn’t approve of her dating a Christian, especially one of even partial African descent. Oh, and typically, the Arabs aren’t in love with us Americans. The entire Middle East has a negative view of the United States of America. They see us as the indefatigable backers of Israel, their Zionist oppressor. Why are you with me? I asked Zainab, point-blank. I took her hand in mine, and squeezed it. I love you Elijah but we can’t be together, Zainab said, pulling her hand out of mine. Then she got up and walked away. I sat there, completely numb. Dude, what the hell just happened? That’s what I wanted to know. You know the song “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone”? Totally applies to my life. After Zainab left me, I spiraled into a very dark period of my life. I stopped going to class and started drinking. I partied all the time with the few friends I had, trying to kill the pain with liquor, music, and anonymous sex with campus girls whom I wouldn’t even recognize the next day. It got to the point that my GPA hit a new low, and both my parents and my academic advisor got worried. I ignored these people, whose only concern was my well-being, and I continued with my self-destructive lifestyle. That’s how I ended at the Sandy Hill Rehabilitation Center, after a drunk driving episode which ( mercifully ) only resulted in my getting hurt and nobody else. I had hit rock bottom and there was nowhere to go but up. The judge had been mercifully lenient, since it was my first time in trouble with the law. He could have thrown the book at me but he didn’t. While in rehab, I had a lot of time to think about all the things I’ve done. I thought about how I hurt my family, how I jeopardized my studies at Northeastern University, and my life itself. I had fallen far but was it too late to get back up? While in rehab, I met a young woman named Isabelle Marwah, and we became friends. Just under six feet tall and slender, with light bronze skin, short spiky black hair and lime-green eyes. As it turns out, Isabelle was a fellow university student who’d fallen on hard times. A first-year student at Suffolk, this gal had done a lot of wild things in a short amount of time and was in over her head. The daughter of Lebanese Christian immigrants, Isabelle Marwah grew up in a restrictive household and went wild while at Boston University. Sex, drugs and Rock N Roll, the reasons why Isabelle ended up in rehab. Did I mention that she’s also an orphan whose parents left her a small fortune? Rehab, man, it attracts all kinds. In this most unlikely of places, two people as dissimilar as Isabelle Marwah and I became friends. We totally bonded, actually. Patients aren’t supposed to get too close while in rehab but Isabelle and I found ways around that rule. We spent a lot of time in each other’s rooms, if you know what I mean. I exited rehab sixty one days after entering it, and walked out a brand new man. Also going home that day was my pal Isabelle. We walked out, arm in arm, and were greeted by my parents. As you can imagine, my mom and dad weren’t thrilled to see me all chummy with a fellow rehab, um, person. Still, Isabelle had no one in the world. Her only surviving relative was her paternal uncle Louis Marwah, and he was too busy with his wife and family in the City of Dearborn, Michigan, to bother coming to distant Milton, Massachusetts to help his wayward niece. Isabelle was alone in the world. I’ve done some foolish things but at least I’ve got my stepfather, my mother and my sisters to support me. Let us be your family my dear, my mother said, hugging Isabelle while staring at me. I smiled and nodded. Yes, mom, apparently I’ve got a thing for Arab girls but lucky for us, this one is a fellow Christian. This was the beginning of new and better times for all of us… Isabelle Marwah and I returned to our lives, or what’s left of them. Honestly, at first I just wanted to get back to Northeastern University and forget everything about rehab. I also felt like getting away from Isabelle at times, because she reminded me of a time of my life I’d rather forget. And yet there was something compelling about her. I found her very attractive, and like me, she had troubled soul written all over her. We became part of each other’s support network, encouraging one another to stay away from drugs and alcohol. Lord knows we’d lost enough to these vices… I found out from my old advisor at Northeastern University that my antics got my scholarship revoked. In order words, NEU was kicking me out. I still wanted to continue with my education. So what’s a fella to do? At Isabelle’s suggestion, I applied to Suffolk University. I got accepted, and resumed my studies, with Isabelle by my side. One day, while walking through campus together, we were approached by two well-dressed gentlemen, a Latino guy named Enrico and a black guy named Leonard. They were missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. We talked to them, and then agreed to visit their church. Truth be told, I hadn’t gone to church in a long time and Isabelle considered herself an Agnostic. When we visited the church, we found it very friendly and welcoming. We started going regularly, for the membership was diverse. Lots of African-Americans, Asians and Hispanics. Lots of people in their twenties, young professionals and students living either in Boston or the outlying areas such as Milton, Randolph, Brockton, etc. We began studying both the Bible and the Book of Mormon, and both appealed to us. If any couple out there needs structure and discipline, along with God’s help, it’s Isabelle and I. In many ways, the church was just what we needed. Our lives changed after we became members. My family was initially worried about Isabelle and I joining the Mormon faith, which they regarded as kooky, but eventually they grew to accept us, especially after noticing the changes in us. I haven’t had a drink in years. And I feel good. My grades at Suffolk University improved, and I graduated with honors with a business degree in 2012. Isabelle Marwah graduated with honors with a degree in psychology that same year. We got married in the summer of 2012, in a ceremony attended by our family and friends. A son was born to us in 2013, little Michael. Life is good, wouldn’t you say? Good day, and may the Maker bless you. From Lebanon With Love In NYC After twenty years in exile, I returned to my native Nigeria, with my son Omar James and his mother, Afaf. In the old days, just like today, conflict between Christian and Muslim were at the forefront of national politics. It needn't be this way. I was born into a Christian family, and I firmly believed in the Lord Jesus Christ and the Gospel. While living in New York City, I attended NYU, where I met a gentleman named Bilal Winston, from the Nation of Islam. Bilal became my friend, and introduced me to the ways of Islam. Bilal and I had many talks about the role of the black man in contemporary western society, and I found myself agreeing with him on many levels. Thanks to his teachings, I became a proud member of N.O.I. and firmly embraced my newfound identity as an African-American Muslim man. Thanks to them, I found a clarity of purpose that was previously lacking in my life. I also found peace and, quite unexpectedly, love. My name is Aziz Kendrick Abachu, and this is my story. I was born on January 31, 1978. The son of Phillip Abachu and his darling wife Michelle O'Connor-Abachu. I first saw the light of day in the City of Makurdi, in the Benue State of Nigeria. I come from a fairly interesting background, I'd like to think. My father moved to the City of London, England, to study at Oxford University. He returned to Nigeria with his white British wife, Michelle O'Connor, whom he met at school, and got himself a high-paying job with the Nigerian government. Unfortunately, due to political instability, my parents were forced to leave Nigeria six years after I was born. Since my father didn't have British citizenship, my parents ended up moving to the United States. A Nigerian man and his white British wife settling in Brooklyn as an immigrant couple with their son in tow, yes, you read that right. I became a naturalized citizen of the U.S. and embraced American life with everything it had to offer. My family did alright for itself, I guess. My dad worked for the IRS and my mom worked for a powerful NYC think tank. For intellectuals like them, a change of scenery wasn't much of a challenge. British university degrees are valid in the United States of America, thank God. Yeah, we were doing alright for ourselves. We moved out of Brooklyn and into a four-bedroom townhouse in Manhattan. I was enrolled at Dalton, an elite NYC prep school. When I started high school, my little brother Mathew was born. Unlike me, he would never know the struggles our family faced in our early years in America. Nor did he have any memories of Nigeria. I've always envied and begrudged him for that, strange as it may seem. By all regards I was as American as any young black or biracial man you might encounter on the streets of New York. I grew an Afro, worshipped the New York Giants, and loved hanging out in Harlem. Being one of a few minority students at Dalton, I felt the need to be surrounded by people who looked like me. It's only much later that I began asking questions about my heritage. For I was half black and half white, the son of three worlds. Nigerian and British blood flowed through my veins, but my passport had American written all over it. At the age of eighteen, I enrolled at NYU, to study Criminal Justice. From 1994 to 1998, I studied but I also traveled a great deal. After graduating from NYU with a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice in 1998, I moved to the City of Toronto, Ontario, where I enrolled at the University of Toronto. I earned a Law degree from U of T in 2002, then practiced Canadian law for a while. I worked for the law firm of Williamson, Fiske and Thorne, one of the top criminal defense firms in all of Ontario. Practicing Canadian law was cool, but I soon learned that for a black male professional, even in the most racially diverse town in all of Canada, the glass ceiling hung low. Even though, with my legal acumen, I outshone most of the other rookie lawyers at the firm, I knew that I'd never make partner. In Canada, white guys are terrified of an educated, ambitious black man. In the US, they don't exactly love us but if we can make money for them, then they let us stick around. In Canada, they'd rather lose with a white guy than win with a black man. In 2008, while America and the world were engrossed in Obama fever, I returned to New York City. My parents were happy to see me returned to them. My little brother Matthew followed into my footsteps at Dalton, though in later years he would pick Harvard University over good old NYU. I guess that's where we differed, my brother and I. After so many years at a mostly white prep school, where I was often the only face with Melanin in the room, I wanted to be among my own people. That's why I gravitated toward schools like NYU and the University of Toronto. They're among the most racially diverse universities in the continent of North America. My return to America was not without its bumps. I studied for the bar exam and while I passed the New York State Bar the first time around, seventy percent of the others who took it failed. Me? I almost had a heart attack waiting for the results. Want to know the funny part? The Ontario Bar Exam was ten times tougher than the one I took in New York. Nevertheless, I was now licenced to practice law both in Canada and America, a distinction few of the tens of thousands of lawyers in New York City had. My folks tried to get me to go to church once I came back to the States, thinking that my interest in Islam was just a phase. Understand that I have much love and respect for Christians and Jews. After all, the prophet Mohammed told us Muslims to respect Christians and Jews as people of the book. We're all sons and daughters of Abraham, the first man God revealed His rules and commands to. I have nothing against churches, I simply refused to bow down before the image of the blond-haired, blue-eyed white guy on the cross. For the sake of argument, let's say that even if what the Christians believe was accurate, Jesus Christ didn't look like Marvel Comics superhero Thor's twin brother. Seriously, people. You can't live in the Middle East for thousands of years without acquiring a permanent tan, like all the Desert people. Jesus Christ was a Jew from the old days, and just like many of today's Israelis, Jesus Christ probably had black hair, dark eyes and bronze skin. Israeli Jews are often almost indistinguishable from the Arabs among whom they live. So Jesus Christ looked like an Arab. If he came back today, instead of welcoming him as the Messiah, racist white guys at the airport would strip-search Jesus Christ, the Messenger of God, because they believe all Arab-looking people are evil, and Jesus looks like an Arab. That's my main disagreement with Christians, when I think about it. Still, I refuse to judge them like some Muslims do. I've noticed a lot of Muslims behaving in an arrogant and prideful manner when dealing with other religions. They believe themselves superior. Last time I checked, God doesn't much care for those filled with arrogance and pride. And men should not judge other men. Only God can judge. I will not lift a finger to condemn any man, whatever his race, religion or origin. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob can see into the hearts of all men, and He will be vindicated come the Day of Judgement. All these things I learned from the venerable sheikhs from the Nation of Islam. After passing the New York bar exam, I began working for the law offices of Raymond Pierre & Associates. Raymond Pierre is a tall, dark-skinned, middle-aged black man who emigrated to the U.S. from the island of Haiti in the early 1980s. He studied law at NYU, and he's one of the best people I know. He is the senior partner and founder of the firm that bears his name. There are seventeen other attorneys working there. He and I, along with his tall, statuesque daughter Yvette are the only black folks at the firm. All the other employers are either white, Hispanic or Asian. Imagine that! Raymond is truly a sharp legal mind, and the guy has a finesse I find truly admirable. He's on a first name basis with a lot of cops, politicians and movers and shakers in NYC. On his office wall I saw pictures of him with New York legends such as former Mayor Rudy Giuliani, ex-US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, along with assorted members of the New York Giants and the Knicks. Raymond is a devout Catholic, but he never tried to force his beliefs upon me. I accompanied him at church a couple of times, out of respect. Once for the funeral of his uncle Bob, and once for his daughter Yvette's wedding. She married a white guy named Christopher Watson, a lawyer from a rival firm, if you can believe that. Good for her. Now, at this point, you might start to wonder where I'm going with all this. I've told you about my faith, my family, my socio-political views, and my travels. This is where the personal stuff comes in. I've always been painfully shy when it comes to women. Indeed, I had sex for the first time at the age of twenty one. I was at a party in Manhattan, and met this tall, curvy and big-bottomed, fine-looking Lebanese chick named Afaf Beyhum. We were talking, drinking and smoking, and there was a nice vibe between us. I learned that Afaf was a newcomer to New York and moved there from the City of Zahle, Lebanon, to study at John Jay College. Afaf wants to be a cop someday. Good for her. We need more minority police officers in NYC. Might stop some of the racial profiling. Of course, I wasn't thinking any of that when Afaf and I danced to Bob Marley music at that house party. I was mesmerized by her big butt in them tight jeans she had on, and I wanted her quite badly. Like I said, I'm usually shy when it comes to women, partly because I'm a glorified nerd, but I was really feeling Afaf and most importantly, she was feeling me. We ended up sharing her bed that night. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Afaf pulling down my pants and grabbing my dick in her hand. My shudders and moans as she sucked my caramel-colored dick like her life depended on it. Me lying on top of her, her legs wrapped around me as I thrust my dick into her wet, hot pussy. Afaf's screams of passion mingling with my own as we fucked like there was no tomorrow. Hot damn. I never saw Afaf after that night. Nope, I wouldn't run into her until the early 2010s, when I saw her in a supermarket, with a awkwardly tall, light-skinned brat with an Afro who was the spitting image of me. Omar James Beyhum. The result of that one night of passion between Afaf and me at a random party in Manhattan. I was stunned to see the two of them. Afaf didn't recognize me, so I approached them. It's not every day a man finds out he's a father, that's for damn sure. Afaf told me that she got pregnant that night and looked for me, but I'd already moved to Toronto. She contacted my parents, but they pushed her away, warning her to stay away from me. When Afaf revealed this to me, I got angry. Not at her but at my parents. How could they do this to me? Had I known I had a son, I would have left Toronto and come back to New York to take care of him...and his mother. I offered her my business card absentmindedly. I couldn't get over the resemblance between Omar James Beyhum and myself. Later on, Afaf told me that she didn't need anything from me. And she really didn't. I hired a detective to find out everything he could about her, and my son. Afaf Beyhum graduated with honors from John Jay College, went to study law at Fordham University and then joined the NYPD. These days, she's a sergeant, if you can believe that. I was mightily impressed. I returned to Manhattan, and convened a family meeting. Even my globe-trotting Ivy League-educated brother Matthew showed up for this one. I showed them pictures of Afaf Beyhum and my son, Omar James, and blamed them for everything. How could they do this to me? My mother looked me in the eye and told me that she was protecting me. My father backed me up, saying that at the time they met Afaf, she came off as loud and angry, and they didn't want her to interfere with my brilliant future. I got mad when I heard these words from my parents. How dare they? It should have been my decision. I looked at them, shook my head, then stormed out of their high-rise apartment. All of a sudden, I couldn't bear to be near them. I stepped outside, into the rainy New York night, and hailed a cab to the Bronx, where Afaf and Omar lived. I stood outside their building for a long moment before buzzing them. I heard Afaf's voice over the intercom, and begged her to let me in. After about five minutes, she relented. I rode the elevator and went upstairs. Afaf and Omar lived at apartment 517. I knocked on the door, and this time, Omar came. Hello, he said flatly, glaring at me. I smiled at him, told him he looked good and asked him if I could come in. Omar let him in, said Afaf, standing right behind him. I entered, took off my wet coat, and then joined them for coffee. I shall never forget that night. Sitting across the table from my son and his mother, I basically poured my heart out to them. I apologized a thousand times for not being there, and told them about the confrontation I'd just had with my parents. Good, Afaf said, grinning wolfishly. Omar looked at me, and asked me if I had any family pictures. I took out my iPhone, and showed him pictures of my parents, my brother Matthew and myself. We're all on Facebook, I said. Omar looked at them for a long moment, then asked me if he could meet them. I looked at him, then at Afaf. Afaf nodded, and told me she had no objections, provided they behaved themselves. I smiled and promised her that my folks would behave. For if they didn't respect my son and his mother, they would lose me as their heir. Omar excused himself from the table to go on his pc, where he undoubtedly looked up my family on Facebook. This left Afaf and I alone at the table. I sat there, looking at my son's mother, a woman I hadn't seen in many years. She was still beautiful, the black-haired, bronze-skinned and green-eyed Lebanese immigrant woman who took my breath away at that house party, so long ago. I smiled at her, and asked her how she'd been. Afaf smiled faintly, and gave me the rundown on the past few years. After her parents, Farshad and Fatima Beyhum found out she was pregnant, and by a black guy no less, they basically threatened to kill her. For this reason, Afaf decided to never set foot in the Republic of Lebanon again. The Arabs are crazy, man. They'll kill their daughter for the sake of family honor in the face of a scandal. Fortunately, after the birth of Omar, Afaf qualified for U.S. citizenship, and got to stay here and build a life for herself and her son. A far off look crept into her beautiful visage as she told me about those early years where she struggled as a single mother and a rookie cop in NYC. Gently I touched her hand, and once again apologized for not being there. Afaf looked at my hand on hers, and for a moment I thought I'd offended her or gone too far but she didn't pull away. Be there for us and don't fuck up, she said flatly, a challenge in her eyes. I nodded, and gave her my word. Afaf smiled, and so did I. Omar suddenly came back into the room, and stared at me. Tell me about Nigeria, my son said, an excited look in his eyes. I looked at Afaf, smiled and nodded. Then I began regaling my son and his mother with half-remembered tales of a faraway land in West Africa which I left decades ago, when I was real young. They hung onto my every word. Looking at the two of them, I felt something I'd never felt before. This felt...right. Scary, but right. I didn't know it at the time, but this was a bold, exciting new beginning. A new chapter for all of us. It's been four years since my son Omar James and his mother Afaf came into my life. They met my parents, and my younger brother Matthew. My parents did a serious about face, from reluctantly meeting Omar and Afaf to fully embracing their new role as grandparents. Omar welcomed them with open arms, with the love and innocence only one so young can possess. He melted their hearts, and mine too. Afaf and I are seeing each other. At first she was reluctant, for we have a complicated history, to say the least. Yet slowly but surely, my persistence paid off. On the fourth anniversary of our run-in in the supermarket, I proposed to her and Omar as the three of us dined inside a nice Italian restaurant on the upper east side. Afaf looked at me with eyes brimming with tears, then looked at Omar. My heart thundered in my chest as I awaited her response. I'm happy to say that it's a resounding yes, folks. For my son's sweet sixteen, I decided to take him and his mother Afaf on a trip to Benue, Nigeria, where I was born. Visiting my ancestral homeland with my son and his mother was like a dream come true for me. What man wouldn't feel immense pride in such a moment? I fell in love with Nigeria all over again. It's truly a shame that Christians and Muslims continue fighting each other over there. What Boko Haram is doing goes against everything true Islam stands for. Perhaps if Nigerian Muslims got a taste of the Nation of Islam, they'd learn to respect their African-descended sisters and brothers regardless of faith. The Nation of Islam taught me to respect myself as a black man, and to love my African people, regardless of faith or origin. Nigerian Muslims could learn a thing or two from the Honorable Minister Farrakhan and his people, instead of emulating the worst habits of the Arabs. Anyhow, I digress. My family and I had a fun and safe time in Nigeria, then we returned to New York City. Afaf and I plan on getting married this summer. We want to have a June Wedding, and my brother Matthew will be my best man. Isn't that cool? By the Grace of Allah, everything turned out alright. Peace be upon you. From Lebanon With Love In Ottawa You just love everything Lebanese, my girlfriend Walidah "Dada" Azzam giggled as I continued to go down on her, lathering her sweet pussy with my tongue. Winking naughtily, I slid my fingers inside her while teasing her clitoris with my tongue. The bed shook as Walidah thrashed wildly, my expert tongue action sending waves of pleasure deep inside her. I looked up at her, my tall and voluptuous sweetheart, and continued pleasuring her. Soon I had her screaming and moaning my name. When all was said and done, Walidah stared at me, wide-eyed, her chest rising, her gorgeous bronze skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Wow, was all she could say. I smiled and gathered Walidah into my arms, then I kissed her. Gently I suckled at her left breast, and gazed longingly at the Lotus flower tattooed on it. Tasty, I murmured, and Walidah cooed softly. Gently she ran her hand on my hairy chest, tugging at the silver crucifix hanging on a red and blue lanyard around my neck. For a nice Christian lad you certainly know how to drive a woman wild, Walidah laughed. I smiled and nodded at that. I've got it like that. Making love is fun, and wonderfully pleasurable, especially when you've got two people as passionate as Walidah and I. Still, I know that there's more to love than making love. I lay next to Walidah on the bed, and lit up a cigarette. I've smoked since I was in high school. I used to be a pack-a-day guy but I've slowed down in recent years. What's on your mind Jerome? came Walidah's voice, snapping me out of my reverie. I looked at her, this beautiful woman who was sharing my life, and I smiled. I'm good babe, I said nonchalantly, and although she frowned a bit, Walidah nodded, apparently she believed me. I excused myself to go to the washroom, and instead went to the balcony. Contrarily to what people might think, the Vanier sector of Ottawa isn't all bad. There are some nice houses, and some of the local neighborhoods are quite lovely. Standing on the balcony, I smoked while gazing at the streets below. Ottawa has become a City of immigrants, and nowhere is this more evident than in Vanier. I know of a Haitian restaurant, a Yemeni-run halal food store and a Nigerian Baptist church, all within a one-mile radius of each other. This part of town is full of recent immigrants, people from places like the island of Haiti, Lebanon, the Philippines, and whatnot. Third-world nations, that's where most newcomers to Canada hail from. And they flock to cities like Ottawa, Hamilton and Toronto. The French-speaking ones like the Moroccans, Algerians, Senegalese and Congolese prefer places like Quebec City and Montreal. My own parents, Amelie and Jean-Claude Duchene moved to Ottawa, Ontario, from Cap-Haitien, Haiti, two decades ago. I was in the sixth summer of my life, and my sister Karla wouldn't be born till three years later. How simple life seemed then. I've always felt at odds with the culture and milieu in which I grew up. My parents, like true conservative Haitians instilled in my brother and I the value of education, and raised us to be good Catholics. Even when I stopped going to church, stopped attending Haitian cultural events, I still considered myself a Christian. I love the teachings of Jesus Christ, it's the behavior of my fellow Christians that irks me. When the Catholic priest sex abuse scandal broke out and made waves internationally, I grew disillusioned with the church but I still considered myself a Christian. After graduating high school, I enrolled at Carleton University. All the Haitian families in Ottawa send their sons and daughters either to the University of Ottawa or La Cite Collegiale. To avoid the whole lot of them, I chose Carleton. It's an exclusively English school, and the perfect environment for me. Don't get me wrong, I love my people, but they get on my nerves sometimes. Alright, make that often. I remember the last time I dated a young woman from my background. Roseline "Rosie" Bouvier. A tall, curvy, dark-skinned and absolutely lovely Afro-Caribbean goddess whom I ran into at my cousin Stephanie's wedding at Ottawa's Sacred Heart Church. We totally clicked, and began dating. I thought Rosie was the one for me, I really did, back in those halcyon days. At last I had found someone from my culture whom I could actually relate to. A Haitian woman who was wild and free, shameless and could give a damn what people thought of her. I mean, the sister showed up at a Haitian wedding in a white silk shirt and black leather pants. I think I started lusting after her on the spot. Oh, and when I found out she was studying business administration at Carleton University, I was thrilled. Rosie told me from the get-go that she was her own woman and did her own thing regardless of what family or friends or society at large thought of her. My reply to that? Simple. Where have you been all my life, lady? A whirlwind and sexually invigorating romance followed, and Rosie and I moved in together sixteen months after we met. I had finally found my Black goddess and I wasn't about to let her get away. By then I was in my fourth year in the criminology program at Carleton University and with graduation looming, I had major plans for Rosie and I. Honestly? I wanted to marry her. I was just saving up for a proper ring. Sadly, it wasn't meant to be. One night I came home, and found Rosie in bed with Trent, this short and skinny white dude who lived next door to us. It was the end of our romance. I kicked Rosie's cheating ass out, and told Trent that if I ever saw him again, I'd break his neck. Afterwards, I moved. This apartment had too many memories of Rosie and I. It was time for a fresh start. I did a lot of soul searching after my relationship with Rosie ended. My family was saddened by the news of our breakup. My sister Karla, now in her freshman year at Algonquin College, told me that she never liked Rosie, and always felt she was a skank. Great, now she tells me! Boo come back to bed, Walidah's sleepy voice chimed in, once more snapping me out of my reverie. I hollered at her that I was just finishing my cigarette. It's funny, the turns that life takes. I graduated from Carleton, and got hired by the Ministry of Corrections. Originally, I wanted to go to law school or maybe become a cop. I never set out to become a prison guard. I just kind of fell into it. The job pays twenty dollars per hour, and comes with a lot of benefits. I'm a law enforcement officer now, got a badge and everything. I love flashing it around to my friends and family, and I especially show it when some ( bigoted ) cop pulls me over and tries to give me a ticket. Usually the guy is cool once he realizes that we're part of the same line of work. Usually. I'm still a black man in Canada, but hey, that's something, right? I tossed my cigarette over the balcony, and went back into the apartment. Once I re-entered the bedroom, I found Walidah waiting for me, legs spread invitingly. The sight of her like this got me hard instantly. Round two, she whispered seductively. I smiled and nodded. And so I went back to her, my sweet Walidah, for another round of lovemaking, sexing, fucking or freaking, whatever they're calling it these days. Walidah loves the rough stuff, and I like that in a woman. That's why, after she sucked my dick good and proper, I put Walidah on all fours, gave her thick round ass a sound spanking and fucked her. Slowly, I slid my erect cock into Walidah's cunt, and just like that, we started anew. Rocking against me, grinding that thick ass of hers on my groin, Walidah told me to fuck her like I was paying for it. I'm not kidding, she used those exact words. I did as I was told, ramming my dick into Walidah's cunt, and delighting in her loud and deep, passionate screams. What can I say? I like a woman who gives it her all in the bedroom, and Walidah is definitely that type of woman. We fucked and sucked for hours, until we fell on the bed, sweaty, exhausted and sated. A damn good night. Lying next to Walidah in the dark, the silence only broken by her loud snoring, I smile to myself. Good sex makes me smile like nothing else can. When I first saw Walidah, I had no idea how fun-loving and open-minded she is. We met at the local Loblaw's, not far from this building. I was shopping that night, having pulled a double shift at a certain correctional facility. That's the nature of working law enforcement. Whether you're a cop, a fed, a corrections officer or anything along those lines, expect the unexpected. If something happens at work near the end of your shift, you're not going anywhere. While walking through the aisles in my uniform, I spotted a tall, fine-looking Arab woman wearing a long skirt and hijab. There are thousands upon thousands of hijab-wearing Muslim women in Ottawa. What made this one so special? The bright red and black Ottawa RedBlacks football sweatshirt she had on. That's our new football team, by the way. We're rejoining the world of Canadian Football League after a long hiatus, this time with a talented black quarterback. I walked up to the lady and smiled. I'm a football fan. I played all four years while in high school. Unfortunately for me, Carleton University didn't start fielding a varsity football team until 2013, two years after I graduated. Sucks, eh? In my experience with Muslim women, especially the conservatively dressed kind, they're polite but reserved in their dealings with men. Yet when Walidah's eyes met mine and we began to talk about football, I saw a sparkle in those dark eyes of hers. Her fearless smile captivated me, and her friendly, engaging manner definitely enticed me. And even though she had on a sweatshirt and one of them long skirts that Muslim women like to wear, I could tell that she was curvaceous, with a booty that just won't quit. I have a practiced eye for these things, I'm a brother. We exchanged numbers that night, which surprised me to this day. I mean, I pulled one of my cards from work, and handed it to Walidah, told her to give me a call in case she ever needed 'personal security'. Sounds like something out of a movie. Definitely not my finest work as far as pickup lines go, but shoot, I was tired from a long day at work, you know? Leave me alone. Even a player from the first caliber can have an off day. Amazingly, it worked! Walidah called me the next day, and we ended up spending two hours on the phone. Walidah was far more open than I could have imagined. I learned quite a bit about her that day. Walidah was a year older than I, a graduate of the Nursing program at the University of Montreal and a newcomer to Ontario from Quebec. Presently, she works at the Ottawa Hospital's Civic Campus. Oh, and she's divorced. Her ex-husband Farouk Al-Bashir was a Saudi immigrant, and apparently way too strict for his own good. Hmmm. Good thing she divorced him. Dude's loss turned out to be my incredible gain. Fed up with the strict, rigid and boring, close-minded guys from her religion, Walidah decided to live it up and explore interfaith relations after her divorce. Awesome! Her ex was definitely an idiot. I cannot believe any man would willingly walk away from a woman as beautiful, intelligent, kinky and open-minded as Walidah. We've been seeing each other ever since. Life is good. From Lebanon With Love: U Of T Why is it that the women with the biggest and most beautiful butts tend to have the most attitude? Seriously, one has to wonder. The first time I spotted Mira Nazeem I went to the graduate student lounge to make a copy of a document and fax it to the social services department. I had never been to the graduate lounge, being a third-year undergrad and all. To be honest, I didn't even know the place existed until someone from the library told me they had a fax machine. I went into the lounge with my papers, and was greeted by a vision of beauty sitting behind the counter. This tall, curvy gal with long, curly black hair prematurely streaked with gray and gorgeous bronze skin got up and took the papers from me, along with the fax number I was sending them to. It'll just be a minute, she said, with an accent I couldn't trace. Hmmm. Cute lady with an accent and some dangerous curves. What's not to like? When the lady turned around, I had to smile. Like every black man who's ever lived, I've got a thing for a cute, big butt. And this lady definitely had one of the best I'd seen at the University of Toronto. She disappeared in another room, and I waited a few minutes. Soon she was back, with the fax confirmation. It had trouble getting in but we made it work, she said evenly. Double entendre much? Never one to resist dropping a pun, no matter how creative or how lame, I smiled and licked my lips. Always fun getting it in, I said, knowing how what I just said could be interpreted in many different ways, and not caring one bit. The lady fixed me with an icy stare, her dark brown eyes sparkling with barely contained anger. That'll be two dollars for the transaction sir, she said, polite but harsh at the same time. I handed her a toonie, then wished her a good day. No reply from her as I made my way to the elevator. Bummer, I thought. What's up with some of them university women being unable to take a damn joke? College and university campuses across North America have become too politicized. Oh, snap. I forgot to mention some key details. My name is Samuel Dorval, and I was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a French Canadian mother and Haitian immigrant father. After spending my whole life in Montreal, I surprised my friends and family by moving to the City of Toronto, Ontario, for higher education. I had a partial academic scholarship to the University of Toronto, so I figured, why not? I enrolled in the Criminal Justice program because I want to be a cop someday. Either that or a lawyer. I haven't decided yet. So, I was having fun in Toronto, but most of it off-campus. I don't shit where I eat, and typically, it's not a good idea to get involved with chicks too close to you. I needed an internship, according to my academic adviser and I figured the social services department of Toronto might do the trick. If that doesn't work, I'll try Toronto City Hall or the Department of Corrections. I went back to the campus library and did my Criminal Law homework, then, upon realizing I was in a quiet corner of the library, with no one around me, I checked out my favorite porn site. It's called Beurette Tour, and it features the most outrageous type of porn I've ever seen. Hot chicks wearing Hijabs ( and nothing else ) while engaging in sexual activity with horny guys, and other hot naked chicks wearing hijabs. The hottest video on the site featured two light-skinned black chicks frolicking in the nude, licking each other's pussies and taking turns fucking each other with a strap-on dildo. I liked that video so much that I got a boner, right there on the second floor of the University of Toronto library. Not a single fuck was given that day, what can I say? The next time I ran into the aloof big-booty chick from the graduate student lounge was at the food court. It was Saturday and I'd come to campus to get some homework done. After countless hours in the library, I was famished, so I went to the food court. It was right before closing time, and I was famished. I went to the chicken and fries place ( don't judge me ) and just as I was about to tell the skinny black guy behind the counter what I wanted, someone sidled right in front of me, and asked for the last damn chicken wings...and most of the fries. Yeah, man. I was there and I couldn't believe that shit. Can you guess who that was? None other than the tall, big-booty chick from the graduate student lounge. What the fuck? I stared at that bitch like she had two heads. What in hell did she think she was doing? Cutie with a big ass or not, nobody skips in front of me, lady! I cleared my throat loudly. The chick turned around, smiled and told me she was looking forward to eating a delicious lunch. We're closing now please make your way to the front, the dude behind the counter told us. Grunting with frustration, I grabbed a cold sandwich and a chocolate milk and walked to the front, paid for it, and left. That chick seriously pissed me off, man. Who the fuck was she? I sat on a bench outside, and ate. As I got back into the building, I took the elevator, and made my way back to the library. I couldn't believe the nerve on that woman. Finally, I gathered my belongings and left campus. Could this day get any worse? I boarded the bus leaving campus, showed my student pass to the tubby bozo driving it, and took out my Blackberry. I hadn't checked my messages in ages. I had a text from my buddy Abdirashid, a Somali dude from my Sociology 101 class, and he told me he had to cancel our Saturday squash sessions. Translation? Abdi is stepping out with Amal again. Ever since he's met the big-booty light-skinned honey from Eritrea, Abdi has been hard to reach. My dude is pussy whipped. And Muslim guys are always fronting with their fake machismo. Bunch of pussies if you ask me. So, I was in the middle of sending Abdi a scathing reply when someone sat next to me. No big deal, I guess. Until I realized who it was. It's you, I said, my heart skipping a beat as the same chick from the food court sat next to me, a smirk on her pretty face. Hello again, she said confidently. I shook my head. Seriously, if she wasn't a female I would have decked her. You got some nerve lady, I said, smiling thought I wasn't the least bit amused. Shrugging, she flashed me a fearless smile. Just having a little fun Samuel, she said coyly. I stared at her, my annoyance turning into concern laced with dread. How do you know my name lady? I said, glaring at her. I sent your faxes remember? she said, with another shrug. Well at least that's not creepy or anything, I said, shaking my head. Sheesh don't freak out, she laughed, as I began to wonder if I should be sitting next to this broad. She's cute and all, beautiful in fact, but I know danger comes in many forms. You don't last long in crime-infested Montreal without figuring that out. My name is Mira Nazeem, she said, extending a well-manicured hand. Hesitantly I shook her hand. Cool I'm Samuel Dorval as you already know, I said, smiling nervously. Mira shook her head. Not a lot of fun when someone flips the script on you mister cocky? she said, grinning. I stared at her blankly. What are you talking about? I said earnestly. This was getting a bit too odd for me, man. Who the fuck is this broad and what does she want with me? I bit my lip. You waltzed into my place of work like you owned the place and thought I'd forget it, Mira said, rolling her eyes. Yo lady I was just flirting it's my usual behavior and nothing serious, I said, smiling as I held my hands up. Mira licked those full, exquisite lips of hers. Next time show a little more class, she said, then got up abruptly. You got me all wrong, I replied, but she was already on her way off the bus. I was about to yell out something really clever as Mira exited, but I kind of lost my train of thought when I saw that thick, round ass of hers swinging from side to side in her blue jeans like a pendulum of temptation. Hot damn. I went back to my apartment that night feeling weird, man. Who the fuck was this broad? I decided to look her up on Facebook, and much to my amazement, we had a friend in common. The mutual link being Joseph Abdullah, a Lebanese guy from one of my classes. I decided to send little miss weirdo a message. You're weird but I like your style Miss Nazeem, I wrote, followed by a friend request. I browsed through her profile and I must say, I kind of liked what I saw. For a chick from the Arab world, Mira sure has a lot of revealing pics on her Facebook. I mean, I was tickled pink when I saw one of her on the beach somewhere, wearing a black bra and matching thong, and standing next to a Hindu-looking guy. A Tamil, I think. So Mira likes dark-skinned men, eh? Sounds promising. Weird as she was, I found myself enticed. Hey, might be worth a shot, right? The next morning, as I checked my Facebook messages, and guess who not only accepted my friend request but wrote something snarky on my wall? Mira Nazeem, in the flesh. It takes a weirdo to know a weirdo Mister Dorval so I'm glad we met, that's what she wrote. Word for word. I smiled and clicked on the like button. Immediately I began creeping through her profile because, well, that's what you do when you first become online friends with someone. Mira had a ton of pictures, which surprises me because, well, in my experience with middle-eastern women they're quite conservative. I was still ogling Mira's profile when I got another message from her. Let's grab breakfast at Hart House, she wrote, and I hastily replied in the affirmative. Around eleven that morning I went to one of Toronto's gallery grill and I must say, the lady was a vision of beauty. Clad in a black T-shirt featuring legendary Canadian artist Julie Nesrallah, black leather pants and black boots. I felt overdressed in a red silk shirt, black silk pants and dark gray silk tie. Hello Miss Nazeem, I said with a grin, as I pulled a chair for her. Good to see you again Mister Dorval, Mira said coyly, and sat across from me. We ordered an omelette with bacon strips, and some orange juice. My treat, I said, and Mira shook her head. After what I did to you in the food court the other day I owe you, she smiled. I gritted my teeth. Touché lady, I conceded, and swallowed a spoonful of egg. Tell me more about Mira Nazeem, I said, staring into those dark eyes of hers. Sounds fair enough, Mira said, licking her lips after sipping some juice. I found that gesture distracting. Seriously, it sent a thrill down my pants. I was born in Zahle and raised in Beirut, Mira began, a faraway look creeping into her lovely face. I listened attentively as Mira told me about her childhood in Lebanon, the conflict between Christians and Muslims which erupted into open war across the entire country, and her family fleeing first to Turkey, then England, where they spent the next two decades. We've been refugees for so long no place can ever feel like home, Mira said, a haunted look upon her face. I stared at her and took a deep breath, unsure what to say. The whole thing was getting too deep for me. I am so sorry, I said, biting my lips nervously. Mira kept talking, as if in a trance. Clearly the gal was having an emotional episode. Unsure what to do, I reached for her hand. Are you okay? I asked, squeezing it gently. Mira's eyes flashed with anger, and she bared her teeth. Take your hand off me, she snarled. At this hour, the restaurant wasn't crowded but there were still people in it. A few of the patrons looked our way. I tried to smile as if everything was alright, as if I wasn't having breakfast with a beautiful but troubled woman. Just making sure you're okay, I said, hesitating. Damn, why are all the hot chicks always bipolar or just plain nuts? Mira looked at me, and sniffed. I'm the one who should be apologizing, she said, and gently laid her hand on mine. I just get a bit emotional when talking about my family's past, she said. It's no bother at all, I said evenly, looking at Mira cautiously. Kind of surprised me that I unloaded on you like that, she said. I shrugged, doing my best to appear unfazed, a gentleman to the end. I smiled at her. You are one complicated woman, I said at last, swallowing the last strip of bacon. Mira flashed me that fearless smile I would come to know so well. Would you have me any other way? Mira laughed. I shook my head. Alright, she had me there. Pulling her wallet out of her purse, Mira produced a bright red Scotia Bank debit card. My treat Mister Dorval, she said with a grin. I hesitated. Being raised in Montreal by a Haitian father with old-school sensibilities and a French Canadian mother made me see the world a certain way. I was raised to be respectful and chivalrous, even though I'm a bit of a prick by my own admittance. Still, I'm not in the business of letting women pay for meals...when they're out with me. Alright but let's do movies or something this week, I countered, looking into Mira's eyes. Sounds good to me, Mira replied, all smiles as she settled our twenty-two-dollar meal, and gave the waiter a five-dollar tip. We left the restaurant together, and went back to campus. I didn't have class till one o'clock so I walked Mira to hers. I'm a graduate research assistant in the anthropology department, she told me, and I must say I was impressed. Sounded like a fascinating field to me. Honestly, I don't know much about anthropology beyond traveling to exotic places and looking at pyramids, I laughed. Mira laughed and elbowed me in the ribs none too gently. That's archeology not anthropology, she laughed. Got me there, I said, and we walked to the Anthropology Building on Russell Street. I have arrived at my destination, Mira said, as we stood in front of the old brownstone building. Thanks for breakfast it's been fun, I said, and extended my hand for her to shake. Mira grinned, and batted my hand away, a gesture which surprised me. Impulsively she threw her arms around me and hugged me. I hugged her back awkwardly. See you soon Samuel, Mira laughed, and ran up the building steps, giggling in a way that was partly sweet, partly insane. I stood there and scratched my head. What a woman! I had to smile. This chick definitely keeps me on my toes. My spider sense, as my hero Spiderman would say, was tingling. This broad is nuts, that's for damn sure. And since when has that ever kept me away from a chick with a cute face and a big butt? Thus I began my dogged pursuit of one Mira Nazeem, international student from Berkshire, England, studying at the University of Toronto. The following week, I took Mira to the Scotia Bank Theatre, and we watched Prisoners, starring Hugh Jackman and that guy from the gay cowboy movie, Jake something or other. The movie was fun, though I found African-American actor Terrence Howard disappointingly tame as a father whose daughter got kidnapped by some creeps, whom Hugh Jackman is breaking all the rules to bring down. Terrence Howard and Hugh Jackman both had their daughters kidnapped and they went looking for them but Terrence kind of disappeared from the movie and it became all about Jackman and that Jake guy. Hollywood's way of excluding the black man, as usual. You're there but you're really not there. I mentioned this to Mira, and I must say, I was surprised by her response. As a biracial man in Canada, I have a different experience than most people when it comes to race and racism. My father is black and my mother is white. I remember the angry looks we'd get from white men, and some black women, when we were out as a family. I've been told that I'm not black enough by Haitian youths in Montreal-Nord when I tried to play soccer with them. And I also got called racial slurs by bigoted young white guys at the private school I attended near Laval. Guess what I did in both instances? I said a big fuck you to the haters. So, yeah, I'm a bit sensitive when it comes to certain things. Hollywood has a way of excluding us minorities and we let them get away with their bullshit too often, Mira said. I looked at her, and smiled. We'd been talking on the phone and online for weeks now, and this was our first outing together, I'm not counting those times we grabbed a bite together at school. I've hung out with and dated women of all shades. I've found that it's a good idea to get to know the racial views of a woman you're with early on, a good way to spare oneself some pain, when you happen to be a son of two worlds...such as I. You can imagine how delighted I was to hear a woman such as Mira Nazeem, of Lebanese Christian descent but able to pass for Italian or Greek, refer to minorities by terms such as "us" and "we". No we mustn't let them get away with it at all, I said, and smiled at Mira. Good answer pretty lady, I thought contentedly. After the movie, I took her to the Hong Shing Chinese restaurant. We had a delicious meal of shrimp-fried rice with orange chicken and egg rolls, which we washed down with Pepsis. We had a really good time discussing the movie, along with Toronto's infamous Mayor Rob Ford, among other things. Mira insisted on covering our meal, since I'd paid for the movie tickets. You must stop keeping score milady, I said in a mock British accent. Where's the fun in that? Mika laughed. We left the restaurant together, and I called her a cab. This time I hugged Mira. I was growing comfortable with her hands-on approach to, well, almost everything. As I hugged her, feeling her body so close to mine, well, it was...a most pleasant feeling. And her Lilac-inspired perfume was wonderfully intoxicating. Thanks for a wonderful outing, Mira said, gently kissing me on the lips. I kissed her back. A five-second peck, nothing like what you see in the movies nowadays. And yet, it was as deep and as meaningful as any first kiss. Goodnight pretty lady, I grinned, squeezing Mira's hand gently before holding the cab door for her. I'm a handful just so you know, she laughed. I smiled and nodded. I stood there, on the curb, and watched her cab drive away. Then I walked my ass home. I don't live far, about eight or nine blocks. I live near Grange Park, within walking distance of the Art Gallery of Ontario. Pricy neighborhood, to say the least, but my landlady is sweet, she cut me a deal. As long as I help her with stuff like maintaining the townhouse ( I'm quite the handyman ) rent is only four hundred a month for me. In exchange, I have a two-bedroom spot to myself in one of the classiest parts of town. Not bad, eh? As I walked the dark streets of Toronto on that October evening, my Blackberry buzzed. Who could be texting me? You've got sweet lips, a text from Mira read. I smiled, and, corny as it seems, I kissed the screen. Right back at you princess don't forget to dream of me tonight, I wrote back. That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about my life, and the weird, and often surprisingly fun twists it often takes. I'm in my third year in the Criminal Justice program at the University of Toronto. Not where I thought I'd be if you'd asked me a while ago, for I couldn't envision leaving my beloved Montreal, but whatever. Life happens. And I'm falling in love with T.O. and catching feelings for a certain gorgeous, quirky and decidedly bipolar, tall Lebanese gal. What can I say? I love my life.