Arab Femdom in Toronto

Another night in this dreadful town. Sometimes I wonder why I came here in the first place. My name is James Bien-Aime. I was born and raised in the town of Newton, Massachusetts. In September 2010, I had the world on a string. I was a freshman at Boston College and life was good. I had everything in the palm of my hand. I was a second-string quarterback on the Boston College football team, and life couldn't be better. My father Louis Bien-Aime used to play football for Boston College, before he went to the Massachusetts State Police Academy. Pops is now a sergeant with the M.S.P.s and I couldn't be prouder of him. Unlike many sons out there, I was happy to follow in my pops footsteps. He raised me by himself, since my mom Alexandra Winston Bien-Aime died giving birth to me. There aren't too many African-Americans on the State Police force and I endeavored to be one of the few. Just like my old man before me. At least, that's what I wanted to do until everything started to go wrong.

After the Boston College football team's devastating loss to those punks of Duke University, I went home and found my sexy Jamaican-American girlfriend Sheila Johnson in bed with my Irish-American roommate Alexander O'Reilly. I cussed them out and chased them off. As I sat alone in my dorm, a whirlwind of anger and despair soared through me. And I did the one thing I shouldn't have done. I had a couple of beers, got in my red convertible ( a graduation gift from my father) and went to chill at my friend Jamal Lester's house in the west side of Brockton. At least, that was the plan. I only had two beers, and with my six-foot-three, 240-pound, rock-solid Black athlete's body, I thought I could handle it. And unfortunately, I couldn't. I got busted by the Massachusetts State Police. The officer who took me in was Troy Henderson, a stocky old Irish cop and my father's best friend. Instead of taking me to jail like he should have done, he brought to my pops. You see, cops in Boston have a code when dealing with each other's brats. They treat each other's brats as if they were their own. It's all part of the brotherly code of the fraternal order of police. My father was far less forgiving than officer Troy Henderson. Let's just say that I caught the beating of a lifetime, and I lost my driver's licence.

I thought I had walked away scot-free but my father wasn't done punishing me. He basically used his clout to strip me of everything I held dear. Gone was my football scholarship to Boston College, one of the most prestigious schools in the state of Massachusetts. Gone was my chance at earning my bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice while playing NCAA Division One football. At the beginning of the year I was debating whether to go straight to the police academy or at least try to get into the National Football League after graduating from Boston College. Now my options were far simpler. My father felt that the City of Boston was too tempting an environment for an impulsive young African-American male like myself. He banished me to the middle of nowhere, also known as Ottawa, Ontario. A fate worse than death. My father felt that I had it too easy in this life. And in many ways, he was right. I did have it easier than him, though I didn't consider my life to be easy. My father was born and raised in the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti. He was a student at College Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Catholic high school, when his own parents were gunned down by the Tonton Macoute, the ruthless military men who enforced the will of the infamous Haitian dictator Duvalier. My father was a kid when he lost his father, mother and sister. That was the early 1980s. He became a United Nations refugee, and was eventually granted asylum in the United States of America. He attended Dorchester High School in Boston, Massachusetts, while staying with a host family. Then he won a scholarship to Boston College, where he played football. He graduated from Boston College's Law School eight years later, but opted for a career in law enforcement rather than becoming a lawyer. The Massachusetts State Police considers him one of their best men.

Now, my father wasn't alone when he left the island of Haiti in the early 1980s. His younger brother Marc-Henri Bien-Aime was also granted asylum and taken in by a U.S. family. My uncle Marc-Henri moved to Canada seven years after he arrived in America. He settled in the region of Ottawa, Ontario, met a lovely Haitian woman, got married and had a son and two daughters, my cousins Jacques, Vanessa and Evelyn. My uncle Marc-Henri is a Constable for the Ontario Provincial Police. It seems law enforcement runs in the family. Anyhow, my father sent me to live with my uncle Marc-Henri in Ontario. In one fell swoop I had not only lost my driver's licence and my scholarship to Boston College, I had also gotten myself thrown out of the United States of America, the country in which I was born. Can you imagine this shit? I can't believe it, and I was there!

Man, I did not like Canada when I first got there. I tried to get into the University of Ottawa, mainly because it had a football team but they didn't accept me. I had an incomplete for my classes at Boston College. The only other university in the City of Ottawa was Carleton University, derisively called Last Chance University by many folks in proper Canadian society. I guess beggars can't be choosers so I was smiling when I got the acceptance letter from Carleton University in the mail. Now, since I'm American and not Canadian, I had to apply as an international student. That means they charge me twenty one hundred dollars per class, instead of the eight hundred or so dollars they charge Canadian students. Man, I was mad as hell when I found that out. I wasn't eligible for any of the usual scholarships. I had to get a job if I wanted to go to school. Being an American in Canada isn't easy. I learned the hard way that Canadians aren't the nice, friendly people most of the world thinks they are. Canadians are mean as hell but they hide it. And they aren't in love with America. They seem to envy us and resent us, though I don't know. We've never done anything to them, as far as I know. Anyhow, I had to get myself a J.O.B. First I applied for a work permit, and found out the only job I could get was that of a security guard. And even for that lousy job, I had to file security clearance forms and a whole bunch of crap. All for a measly twelve bucks an hour. Nevertheless, a job was a job. I worked for various security companies in the summer of 2011, and saved every penny. When September 2011 came, I was ready to enrol at Carleton University. I had saved enough to pay for two classes. I almost killed myself with overtime shifts at work. Don't ask me how I did it but I got it done.

At Carleton University, I was in for a lot of culture shock. I think it's the most international of all Canadian schools. I mean, I sat in a Criminology class of about a hundred students and all around me there were guys and gals from Africa, Latin America, the Republic of India, the Caribbean, the Arab world and the Republic of China. I was stunned. There were a few American students there as well. They were mostly rich white guys and gals from places like Hartford, in the state of Connecticut and Fairbanks in Alaska. Not my kind of people but whatever. I walked up to them and said hi, and I tried not to roll my eyes as they talked about how much fun they were having in Canada as rich Americans. In my Criminal Psychology class, I met someone I would never forget. Jayanti Lakshmi Kalpana, born and raised in the City of Amravati, in the Maharashtra Province of the Republic of India. She'd been living in the Confederation of Canada since 2001. The first time I saw that gal, I was stunned.

Now, I saw beautiful women all the time. However, something about this six-foot-one, curvaceous young woman with dark brown skin, long Black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes simply took my breath away. Jayanti was simply lovely. When I first saw her, I thought she was Black. I mean, her skin was the same shade as mine. And I was born of a Haitian-American father and Jamaican mother. I'm not mixed with anything, though I consider myself as American as apple pie. With a smile on her lovely face, Jayanti corrected me. She told she was a Tamil from India, and many of her people were as dark-skinned as any person from sub-Saharan Africa. Wow. I was amazed at that. We don't get a lot of Indians in Boston and the ones I knew were usually bronze-skinned, not dark brown. Now that I looked at her, Jayanti's features were a bit different from the average Black person's. Later I noticed that the few Tamil students at Carleton University looked like white folks who were painted dark brown. African-like skin tones but Caucasian-style hair and facial features. What a fascinating people.

Jayanti and I became friends. She told me that she had family in the U.S. and visited them every Christmas, even though she was raised Muslim. Apparently there were lots of Muslims in the Republic of India. When I asked her why she didn't wear the hijab like most of the Muslim women I saw in the town of Ottawa, Jayanti told me that sometimes she wore it and sometimes she didn't. There was a sharpness in her tone as she told me this, so I wisely chose not to press the issue. Still, I did notice that for some reason, the hijab framed Jayanti's features beautifully when she wore it. My buddy Jacob Jackson, a red-haired, chubby white guy from the City of Trenton, New Jersey, congratulated me loudly when he saw me sitting next to Jayanti and chatting her up inside the Carleton University library. The boisterous bozo embarrassed me in front of Jayanti. I smiled weakly and pulled him aside before he could do more damage. Jackson told me he had a thing for Muslim chicks, especially Somali women and Indonesian women, though he was partial to Hindu women as well. Like a lot of white guys, he craves minority women but doesn't care to learn anything about their culture. I exchanged dap with him and wished him luck in his hunt for "Muslim booty" before returning to Jayanti. She laughed and asked me about my chubby buddy. I looked her in the eye and told her Jackson had a drinking problem, by way of explaining his behavior. That wasn't true but whatever.

Anyhow, Jayanti and I continued to hang out. Day by day I grew more and more fascinated by this young woman. I found her really hot, but she was also smart as a whip. Jayanti spoke like a hundred languages or something. And she made friends with everybody. I did notice that a lot of the Hindu and Chinese people in Ottawa didn't care to associate with folks of African descent. Jayanti wasn't like that. She was friends with many guys and gals of all backgrounds, from Big Abdi, a towering but friendly Somali guy with buck teeth to Jenny Yamamoto, a nerdy Japanese gal who chews tobacco. Yep, Jayanti didn't discriminate. I liked that about her. Sometimes, Hindu guys would shoot me funny looks when they saw me with her. So did a lot of white guys. I found the latter's reaction funny. White guys in Ottawa seem to make interracial dating a sport. They chase Asian women, Black women and Indian women like it's going out of style. They're not that successful with Arab women, or Somali women who are practicing Muslims.

I think it's mainly because I've yet to see a white man convert to Islam. In my experience, white men don't worship any deity who doesn't look like them. Jesus Christ looked like an Arab, but to make him more palatable to Europeans, he became a blue-eyed blond guy according to the depictions of artists since the middle ages. Ah, white men. They'll never change. Yet they date interracially more than anybody except maybe Black guys in Ottawa, who seem to only date white women. Those same white guys who mainly date minority women frown when they see a white lady with a Black guy. Oh, yeah. You can't walk a thousand feet in Ottawa without seeing a Black guy with a white woman. A lot of the local Black women were starting to chase white guys like their lives depended on it. This is a swirl kind of town. Jayanti and I laughed about that. I was a really unusual Black man. The kind who didn't walk around with a Black woman or a white woman. When Jayanti asked me why I wasn't dating a pretty Black woman or some blonde-haired white chick, I told her that a certain Hindu goddess had stolen my heart. Amazingly, Jayanti blushed when I said that. That's when I gathered my courage, leaned closer and kissed her. And she kissed me back!

When our lips parted and I held Jayanti's beautiful face in my hands, I knew that she was the one for me. Hesitantly, I reached for her hand. Without hesitation, she clasped my hand in hers. Smiling, we walked through campus together. We got funny looks from Hindu guys with Chinese girlfriends, Black women with white boyfriends and just about everyone else. Jayanti and I just smiled and ignored them. It's a rare Hindu woman who will date outside her race or culture. And my Jayanti was even rarer than that. She was a practicing Muslim dating a Haitian-American guy who was raised Roman Catholic. And she didn't care. I found myself falling in love with this beautiful Hindu woman. When I looked into her soulful brown eyes, I saw a kindred spirit. Jayanti changed my world, folks. She helped me see things in a whole new light.

When I first came to Canada, the song "This Place Is A Prison" by this band called The Postal Service was my theme song. Look it up and you'll understand. I hated Canada, especially the dull and boring, bigoted little town of Ottawa, Ontario. I hated this annoying little town full of self-important government workers, and the perpetually half-drunk university students who aspired to become them. I hated the capital of Canada for its pretense of loving acceptance and diversity underneath which I detected an all-powerful and overwhelming xenophobia. With Jayanti by my side, I began to experience a whole new world. Jayanti came to study at Carleton University mainly because she won an academic scholarship there. She's originally from the beautiful City of Toronto, Province of Ontario. During our first weekend away together, Jayanti took me to Toronto. I found myself amazed at this magnificent super-sized City. I thought Boston was big. The City of Toronto was even bigger. More than half of Toronto's five million people came from places like Africa, the Arab world, the Caribbean, China, India and a variety of places.

Wow. I didn't think there were places like this in Canada. I grew up near the lovely, progressive and racially diverse City of Boston, Massachusetts. Boston, home of Deval Patrick, the first African-American elected Governor of the State of Massachusetts. Boston, where future President Barack Obama went for Law School. Boston, a venerable City I missed dearly. To cheer me up, Jayanti took me to a baseball game. I watched my Boston Red Sox lose to the idiots of the Toronto Blue Jays. I think I was the only guy with a Red Sox T-shirt in the entire stadium. Damn those Boston guys and gals for not grabbing a plane at Logan Airport and getting their sorry asses to Toronto. I was inconsolable after the loss, but as usual Jayanti found a way to cheer me up.

Jayanti and I drove back to Ottawa. Well, she drove. I still don't have a driver's licence. I'm going to try to get one as soon as time allows. Between my classes at Carleton University and my gig as a mall overnight security guard, I was really pressed for time. I was so drawn up into my own problems that I didn't notice the fact that Jayanti wasn't driving back to my place in Saint Laurent. Instead she drove us to the Colonel By area, where Carleton University is located. She asked me to come into her dorm and chill a little bit. I didn't think much of it. Between watching my Boston Red Sox lose to the Toronto Blue Jays and my homesickness, my mind was far away. I sat in Jayanti's living room, looking at a movie playing on the tube. Sarkar Raj, a Hindu movie that was eerily similar to the classic The Godfather, only with edgier acting and much better special effects in my opinion. Anyhow, I heard Jayanti's voice calling me, I looked up...and gasped in shock.

Standing by the door was Jayanti, wearing her birthday suit. Well, her birthday suit plus the hijab, in any case. The tall, curvy and absolutely lovely Tamil goddess smiled at me. I grinned from ear to ear. Wow. Jayanti was definitely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And I've been gawking at women since my hormones kicked in about a decade ago. Jayanti gestured with her finger, beckoning me to come to her. In a stupor I rose from the couch and went to her. Jayanti put her arms around me and kissed me. Taking my hesitant hands in hers, she placed them on her big, round booty. I smiled, and looked into her eyes. Jayanti told me she'd wanted me for a long time. I was happy as a clown but also quite hesitant. I mean, I wanted her but Jayanti is one complicated gal at times. Sometimes she's the most conservatively dressed Muslim gal in town, and other times she's cutting loose with low-cut dresses that would make a stripper blush. Jayanti sensed the hesitation in me, and asked me if I found her beautiful. Of course I said yes. Then we began the kisses again.

Taking me by the hand, she led me into the one place in her dorm I was forbidden to enter. Her bedroom. Jayanti sat on the king-sized bed, and told me to get naked. Hastily I took off my shirt. Jayanti held up her hand, and told me to strip for her. I smiled, and took my time as I removed first my pants then my boxers and socks. I've never performed a strip show for a woman before. This was definitely an interesting experience. Jayanti smiled at me as I got naked. I stood before her, naked as a jay bird. My eight-inch, uncircumcised dick stood at attention. Jayanti gasped when she saw it. I swear I remembered she was Muslim in that moment. The hijab she still had on her head hadn't registered in my lust-addled brain. Jayanti looked at my member and narrowed her eyes. I squared my shoulders. Would she reject me because I'm uncut? I've dated a few chicks who had a problem with it. I'm not ashamed of being uncut. My father wasn't circumcised either, and he assured me my late mother didn't want me to be cut either. My family doesn't believe in altering the human body in the name of religion, or misguided medicine. I asked Jayanti if everything was okay. She looked at me and giggled, saying she'd never seen a dick that was bent while erect before. I laughed at that. Yep, I've got a curved dick.

Impatiently, Jayanti told me to stop posturing and join her. I obeyed my lady. And thus I found myself in bed with her. Gently, we began exploring each other. Jayanti told me that this was her first time. I hesitated when I heard that. Truth be told, I've only been with one gal before. Sheila Johnson. And you guys know how that turned out. I promised Jayanti that I respected her body, and would be gentle with her. And I was. I kissed her and gently rubbed her breasts. Then I suckled on the areolas of her tits. Jayanti was nervous at first, then she relaxed and enjoyed herself. Slowly, I made my way down her body by kissing a path from her breasts to her belly and down to her pelvic area. I moved my hand toward her pussy and Jayanti clamped her legs shut. She looked at me with nervousness in her eyes. I promised her I'd be gentle and make her feel good. And I kept that promise. Gently, I spread her legs. Jayanti's pussy was neatly shaved. She told me she shaved for me. I smiled and told her that she was okay by me no matter what. In the back of my head I realized that this whole event was planned by her. I guess women really do choose the men, and not the other way around. I began to gently lick Jayanti's pussy, and I watched her beautiful face the entire time. I probed her with my fingers and tongue, and watched in delight as she moaned and urged me to continue. Thus I brought my beloved Jayanti her first orgasm, or so she said.