"What the hell, Adam? You're looking at weird stuff like this now after you swore to me you don't get down like that?" I all but snapped, glaring at my Haitian boyfriend Adam "Abdullah" Ducat as I pointed at a bookmarked video featuring a light-skinned black woman banging the hell out of a darker-skinned dude with a strap-on dildo in a swimming pool. The couple on the screen were going at it like kinky sex was going out of style.
I looked at the video, and then at my boyfriend Adam, who looked at the computer screen then at me, a sheepish expression on his rather handsome face. This is the same brother who got mad when I fingered his bum one night while giving him oral sex. Seriously, Adam read me the riot act after that one. Look at him now. Oh my, how the worm turns. I swear, men and their sexual hang-ups!
I'd been home for about ten minutes when my boyfriend Adam walked in, doubtless tired after a tough day of rigorous civil engineering classes at Carleton University. I was tired too, but got real pissed when I found out he'd somehow deleted some stuff I was doing research on, and bookmarked the type of porn he once swore he wasn't into, right where my saved stuff used to be. Yeah, I'm not a happy camper.
"Um, Yasmeen, I can explain," Adam said, and I watched, alternately amused and annoyed, as he tried to weasel his way out of this one. I've been living with my boyfriend Adam Ducat for a while now, and I'd like to think that I know him inside and out. While it's true that we come from different worlds, there are certain things no man can hide from his woman, if she's got good sense, that is.
My name is Yasmeen "Yes I'm Mean" Ali, and I was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a Somali Muslim immigrant father and a white Canadian mother. My parents, Yousef Ali and Maribelle Dupuis divorced when I was younger. I was raised Muslim but lead a largely secular lifestyle, though I often wear the hijab for reasons of culture and identity. I have my faith and heritage, both of which are dear to me but I live my life my way.
As a Muslim woman born and raised in the West, I feel like I walk a fine life. My faith. My body. My sexuality. The subject of public discourse they are, as Yoda would say. I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm living under a microscope. These days, I live in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, and attend Carleton University, where I study Nursing. I met the supposed love of my life, Adam Ducat, at an interfaith meeting organized by the school's various religious organizations.
When I saw the six-foot-tall, dark and handsome young black man with the shy smile and thick French accent, my heart simply skipped a beat. Adam Ducat, who was a leader of the Haitian Students Club at Carleton University, simply took my breath away. I've got a thing for tall, chocolate-hued guys with deep voices. Blame it on all those Will Smith romantic comedies I grew up watching, I guess. Adam wasn't just easy on the eyes either. The brother is smart, with a talent for public speaking and knows how to work an audience. After the meeting, I simply had to pester him with questions for, ahem, religious purposes.
"Excuse me please, just wanted to say that you looked like you really knew your stuff out there, I'm Yasmeen," I said, smiling at Adam, who looked at me and shyly returned my smile. Clad in a red silk shirt and blue silk pants, the brother looked good. That bashful smile which spread across his handsome features as he looked at me seemed like an open invitation to me.
"Thank you Yasmeen, I thank the Lord for giving me strength to speak onstage," Adam replied, and he held out his hand for me to shake. Normally, pious, hijab-wearing Muslim sisters like me aren't supposed to shake hands with guys, but dammit, I made an exception for Adam. The Haitian brother looked good enough to eat, seriously. We ended up grabbing coffee together and talked about religion and culture, among other things, and that's how it all began.
Fast forward a year, and our lives have drastically changed since that first meeting. Adam Dupuis has gone from church-going Haitian lad and Catholic Youth Leader to new Muslim, ( much to the chagrin of his very Catholic mother Jeannine, who despises me for "turning her son" ) and now goes by the name Abdullah, and I'm the only person who gets away with calling him Adam these days. We live together, and life is good.
I love my Adam and I know him very well. From his weird habit of watching dinosaur videos on the Discovery Channel to his fondness for "femdom porn", the man is an open book to me. That's why I find it so comical when he tries to hide stuff from me. Guys really should know by now that us ladies do better detective work on our men than Sherlock Holmes himself. Word to the wise.
"Dude, if you wanted me to buy a strap-on dildo and fuck you with it, all you had to do was say so," I said, laughing, as I walked right past Adam and headed to the shower. I've had a grueling day at the Ottawa General Hospital. I didn't even wait for Adam's answer. I took my clothes off and stepped into the shower. I absolutely hate hospitals, not for the hard work or the patients but because of the fake-smiling, catty, backstabbing nurses and the high and mighty doctors who think they know it all. Sheesh.
One of the ladies at work, some Filipina bitch named Carol, has a real problem with me. I'm five-foot-eleven, voluptuous and if I do say so, oh-so-fine, with caramel-hued skin, lime-green eyes and long, curly black hair. My father is from East Africa and my mother is French Canadian. Those fairly unique bloodlines created the exotically beautiful and utterly fearless woman that I am. People sometimes ask me if I'm from Latin America but I always tell them I'm biracial, half African and half white.
Stepping under the warm water, I closed my eyes and lathered up my body. I do love my shower time. I swear the best ideas come to me in the shower. I lathered up my body with soap, and caressed my breasts, pinching the nipples gently. I cleansed myself thoroughly, fingering my cunt and asshole, washing my bum and my sweet spot with soap and water. As I stood there, I slid two fingers into my pussy, and masturbated to a guilty pleasure for a few moments. My eyes snapped open as a knock on the bathroom door interrupted my, ahem, flow.
"Come in," I shouted, and a second later, Adam stepped in. Without a word, he took off his clothes and stepped into the shower with me. I looked him up and down and grinned, knowing he was still pissed about my busting him earlier. Adam looked at me and grinned, and then pulled me into his arms and tried to kiss me. I playfully pushed him away, but he pressed me against the wall.
"Feeling rough tonight, papa bear?" I chided Adam, knowing how much he hates it when I call him that. Adam kissed me full and deep, and this time, I let him. Passionately we embraced, and just like that, we began making love as the hot water cascaded on our bodies. Adam kissed my neck and grabbed my breasts, fondling them gently before slapping my ass.
"I know you like it rough," Adam said, laughing, as I pretended to protest, though I loved the feel of the stinging slap on my rather ample derriere. I laughed, and turned around, pressing my bum against Adam's groin. Adam kissed the back of my neck, then caressed my booty. I felt his hard dick rub against my behind, and grinned. Time to get this show on the road.
"Quit talking," I hissed, and Adam did just that, easing his hard dick into my cunt even as I grinded my butt against his groin. Adam grabbed my wrists with those strong hands of his and put my hands behind my back. Just like that, he thrust into me. I licked my lips, welcoming the wondrous mixture of pleasure and pain I felt as Adam's dick filled my cunt. Holding my wrists behind my back with one hand, Adam grabbed the back of my neck with the other.
