Bisexual Blac Couple

It's eleven o'clock at night and I'm lying in bed next to my boyfriend Mitchell Voltaire. Watching him sleep. When he's awake, he's really something. Six feet two inches tall and two hundred and forty pounds of hard-bodied black man. A force to be reckoned with. He's come through for Southeastern Massachusetts University's football team time and again as they played against their fiercest rivals on the gridiron. Asleep, though. He's something else. He looks vulnerable, and beautiful. There he is, the love of my life.

There, I said it. My name is Wendy Monpoint. A Haitian-American Amazon who stands five feet eleven inches tall when barefoot. I'm quite curvy, even voluptuous, and damn proud of it. I've got face. I've got chest. And I've got ass. I'm a real woman, and damn proud of it. My skin is dark brown, and I've recently cut my hair in the style Halle Berry had in the X-Men movies. Mine isn't dyed, though. If you can't handle a strong black woman who stands up for herself and loves her man, then this story isn't for you. I'm on an academic scholarship at Southeastern Massachusetts University. I was there when it was still a women's college. Now it's changed. So much has changed. Including me. I fell in love with a man. And tonight I've done some terrible things to protect him...from himself.

Something came for him in the mail earlier. Something which shocked me to my core. A membership card from the Bisexual People of Color Network. B.P.C.N. The envelope had been rerouted from the Randolph post office. Apparently, someone forgot to go pick it up. I checked them out online. What I found amazed me. They were an organization made up of bisexual men and bisexual women from New England. Mostly Blacks and Latinos, with a few Asians and Middle-Easterners. Wow. My boyfriend Mitchell...one of them.

It is not that big a shock. Doesn't bother me. I'm not mad. I just wish he'd trusted me enough to tell me he's bisexual, though. Looking back, I have seen it coming. I met Mitchell during Freshman Orientation Day at SMU in August of 2007. He's always been such a loud, outspoken and manly guy. I noticed that about him right away. It made him stand out. He was an incoming freshman, a recent graduate of Brockton Community High School. I was a sophomore at the time, and I worked for the Admissions Office. It was my duty to show this new batch of freshmen the campus. I noticed that there were a lot of men in this batch. Lots of young black men. And to be honest, I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

When I started college back in 2006, Southeastern Massachusetts University was known as Southeastern Massachusetts College. It was one of a few all-female Catholic schools left in New England. I chose SMC over Wellesley College because lots of black and Hispanic women who chose single-sex education went there. I'd already gone to an all-white and all-female private school. I didn't want a repeat of the experience. I needed diversity where I lived, thank you very much. However, turning my all-female school suddenly coed wasn't my idea of diversity. That was pushing it a bit too far.

While I gave them the tour, one of the young men kept asking a lot of pointed questions. When I showed them the Women's Center, he asked whether there was also a Men's Center. Truth be told, there was one in the works as mandated by the school's new president, Dr. Joanna Bartleby, but I didn't need to be reminded of it. It was one of those changes on campus which I didn't like very much. The campus was coed. Did the administration have to rub it in my face? My eyes narrowed to slits and zeroed in on the smirking guy who was being a smart ass. It was none other than Mitchell, the big and tall black guy from Brockton.

I told him that the school didn't feel a Men's Center was necessary at the moment, but in future time one might be added if students felt the need for it. He crossed his arms and stared pointedly at me, saying this was gender-based discrimination. The other guys in the group smirked. Some of the young women nodded, while a few rolled their eyes. I gave Mitchell an icy glare, then continued with the tour. Yeah, even back then he had a habit of getting under my skin. Little did I know that our fates were entwined.

I finished the tour, then went back to my dorm. I lived in Madeline Hall, the last all-female dorm on campus. It housed three hundred occupants. The other eight dorms buildings, from my beloved Stetson Hall to the Baxter Esplanade had all gone coed. Here and there, young men were moving their stuff into the dorms as their doting moms and dads looked on. A few female students who had been around as long as I have watched them, perplexed and stunned. It was easy for me to see which gals were new to the campus, and which ones weren't. The new ones just went about their business, sometimes openly flirting with the young men while the young women who were at the school before it became guy-land kept staring at them. The guys didn't pick up on it.

Yeah, this was promising to be a terrific school year. I was the captain of the Women's Rugby team and true to form, I went to practice with my teammates. Coach Jocelyn Stony, a tall, sturdy redhead in her mid-forties told us that we would have to share the stadium with the incoming football team. We had a new practice schedule. I couldn't believe this shit! The women's rugby team of Southeastern Massachusetts University was one of the oldest in the NCAA. We'd been around since 1973. And now these jocks who had come from Lord-knew-where had been allowed to cut in on our practice time? Hell no! I stormed into athletic director Mariah Smith's office, launching vigorous protests. She told me that there was nothing she could do.

I wasn't the only female student-athlete who felt bothered by the changes in scheduling practices. Athletes from the women's soccer, women's equestrian, women's archery, women's synchronized swimming, women's wrestling, women's Track & Field, women's cycling, women's skiing, women's water polo, women's rowing, women's field hockey, women's Ice Hockey, women's volleyball, women's swimming, women's cross country and women's gymnastics teams were all affected. We all had to adjust. We would have a fixed schedule for using the Field House, the Weight Rooms and the Swimming pool. All due to the new regulations. The women's basketball team would have the gym for two hours each day. The new men's basketball team would use it for the same amount of time, but in the late afternoons.

Change had come to the campus. Southeastern Massachusetts University now fielded men's varsity teams in baseball, basketball, cross country, volleyball, water polo, wrestling, track & field, golf, tennis, football, gymnastics, swimming, Ice Hockey and soccer. Men made up forty nine percent of the student body as of September 2007. Thanks to some traitor in the administration, the school was now coed. Life on campus would never be the same. I didn't like it. And if the guys thought I would simply bow down and let them run things, they had another thing coming.

I wasn't too pleased about what had been done to my campus. Don't get me wrong. I got nothing against male athletes. But why did they have to come to SMU and take it away from us? They got their pick of athletic powerhouses in local schools like Boston College, Northeastern University and UMass-Amherst. Women's colleges were created to insure that women got a fair shake in education. I think we've come a long way but we're not quite there yet. I advocate single-sex education for young women, and for young men if they feel it's needed. Separate but equal works fine for me. Men and women didn't need to be in each other's faces all day.

Yet one man was destined to get in my face. Mitchell Voltaire. As it turns out, the football player was in many of my classes. He was a Psychology major. One of the two hundred men who enrolled in the six-hundred-person program. He sat next to me in my Psychology of Deviance class. We were having a grand old time discussing male aggression and female victimization in society and how the media affects the outcome of criminal trials and Mitchell constantly had his hand up. At last, the teacher let him speak. With a smirk on his face, he told the class that he thought the whole discussion was gender-biased. According to him, female criminals were the fastest-growing group among all inmates and they preyed on both male and female victims.

I shook my head, this guy had some nerve. Amazingly, the teacher agreed with him. I raised my hand in protest. I told the class that while female criminals did exist, males still made up the bulk of those incarcerated. The young women in the class nodded in agreement. The guys had a blank look on their faces. Most of them looked distracted. Mitchell smiled confidently, and cited some rather infamous cases. He mentioned Aileen Wuornos, the female serial killer from Florida. And that woman in Texas who killed her offspring and got off with an insanity plea. He also mentioned the incidence of female teachers having sexual relations with their pupils. Including the blonde one who was all over the news because she was a repeat offender. The class stared at Mitchell. He just smirked. And amazingly, the teacher agreed with him. She said that sometimes, women did get away with crimes far easier than their male counterparts did. The class was agreeing with Mitchell! They were even clapping. I didn't see that one coming, folks.

In spite of myself, I admired him. Maybe Mitchell wasn't just some jock. He was definitely smarter than I initially gave him credit for. I underestimated him. It's a mistake I wouldn't make again. At least that's what I told myself. As I walked to the campus library to prepare for my next class, I heard someone hollering at me. Turning around, I gasped. It was literally the last person I'd expect. The infamous Mitchell Voltaire, big man on campus. What did he want now? Seeing the look on my face, Mitchell smiled and held his hands up. He told me he came in peace. I stared at him through narrowed eyes. What did he want? Still smiling, he told me he wanted to talk. Apparently, he liked the way I thought, and thought he could enlighten me about a few things. As if. Nevertheless, I was intrigued so I let him walk me to the library.

We sat at a table, and for the next hour, we were arguing nonstop. Mitchell had a lot of opinions on a lot of issues, ranging from racial and gender bias in the law to collegiate politics and the state of the economy in America. He was wrong about a lot of things, of course, but I admired his passion. We agreed on a few things, surprisingly. We both thought more black men and black women should go to college instead of winding up in prison or becoming parents before they're financially and mentally ready for it. As I talked to Mitchell, I began to get a different picture of him. There was more to this guy than meets the eye. We really got into it, to the point that I almost ended up being late to my Criminology class. It was clear across campus, and I'd missed the student bus. Mitchell felt guilty, and offered me a ride there. I hesitated. I didn't get into cars with guys I didn't know. Even guys who looked and talked like him. Still, I didn't want to be late to my next test. So I took him up on his offer.

Mitchell owned a bright red BMW which he claimed had been given to him by his mother Beatrice as a graduation present. As we drove to the Humanities building, Mitchell told me about his family. He spoke warmly of his mother, Beatrice L'Heureux Monpoint, whom he told me was a tax attorney. Apparently, she owned her own firm. He also mentioned his younger brother Joseph, who played football for Cardinal Spellman High School. When I asked about his father, Mitchell told me he was a cop, and wouldn't go on. It was apparently a sore subject with him so I didn't press. We arrived at the Humanities building, and I got out. He wished me luck with my test, waved and drove away. As I walked to class, I couldn't help but take a last look as he drove away. Who was that guy underneath it all?

The next time I saw Mitchell, it was the next day, right before I went to Rugby practice. The other women were waiting for me. I saw Mitchell walking near the field house, pacing while talking on his cell phone. He looked worried. I approached him, just to say a quick hello. I hadn't seen him in class earlier. He said hey when he saw me, then asked me if I could text him the homework assignments. Apparently, he had lost his syllabus and hadn't come to class because of an emergency. When I asked him what kind of an emergency, he told me that his mother had been taken to the Boston Medical Center. Apparently, there had been an incident during court. He had to get there, and make sure she was alright. Mitchell looked scared, and worried sick. I had never seen him like this, in the short time that I knew him. I don't know why, but for some reason I felt like helping him. I offered to come with him to the BMC. I'd text him the homework assignment later. Mitchell seemed surprised by my decision. I told him us black folks had to stick together. He stared at me for a moment, smiled, then said okay. When my teammate Melissa, a tall and muscular blonde Irishwoman told me I was needed at rugby practice, I told her I had an emergency. She said okay, she'd tell coach for me. Then Mitchell and I went to the parking lot.

We got into his car, and drove away. Leaving the SMU campus, we soon left the town of Randolph and got onto the highway. The Boston Medical Center is located at the heart of Boston. It's a few miles away. For most of the ride, I was silent. Mitchell did most of the talking. He was worried about his mother. He swore that if anything happened to her, he'd deck somebody. I sat next to him, telling him to relax. Hopefully, his mother was okay and it was nothing serious. I couldn't believe what I was doing. Ditching rugby practice to accompany some guy I barely knew to the hospital to check up on his mother. I didn't know it then but looking back, I should have known. Love makes you do crazy things...