Mona the Somali Milf

After a disastrous couple of years at Bay State College in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, I cost my family a ton of money and got into a bit of trouble. When you're a nice young man from the island of Haiti who's lucky enough to have your parents pay for your schooling, you ought to be thankful. Oh, I'm not an ingrate but the reason why I failed is because I wasn't allowed to study what I truly wanted. I have a passion for criminal justice, but my parents pushed me into studying computer science, which I hate. Small wonder my grades tanked, eh?

"Stephen, you're going to stay with your aunt Malvina and your cousins in Ottawa until further notice," said my father, Rupert Antoine. The six-foot-tall, dark-skinned Haitian patriarch looked at me sternly, and I swallowed hard and nodded. We were sitting inside the family living room at our house in the City of Brockton, Massachusetts. I had a 2.1 ( on a four-point scale ) GPA at the end of my first year at Bay State College, and the stench of my abject failure permeated the Antoine household.

"In Ottawa, seriously?" I asked, and shook my head. I barely remembered Ottawa, a town I visited during the family's trip to Canada for my cousin James wedding to a white lady he met at college. Before my father could reply, my mother, Helene Raymond-Antoine, smacked me hard on the back of my head. I should mention that in the Haitian community, they're big on corporal punishment. Oh, and your parents act like dictators regarding your life while you're living under their roof. That's just the way of things in our community.

"Ti gason, don't talk back to your father," Mom said sharply, and I looked at her, hard. I barely bit back a sharp answer. I'm twenty years old and by all rights, I am a grown man. Hell, I'm six-foot-four and weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. Mentally or physically, I'm not a brat anymore. I've voted in a Presidential Election, as is my right as a naturalized U.S. citizen. Dammit, I got a right to be my own man.

All the things I just mentioned, none of them mean dip shit to my folks. They constantly remind me that I am useless without them. All because I've made a few mistakes. If only they didn't push me into computer science, I would have had stellar grades like I did while attending Brockton High School. Oh, well. Sucks to be me, I guess.

"I need some fresh air," I said, and before either of my parents could reply, I walked out of our house on Ash Street, and went for a stroll. When we arrived in the City of Brockton from Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti, in the summer of 1999, we were one of two black families in this quaint neighborhood on the west side. Everyone else was either white or Chinese. Now there's a Latino family living in the green house across the street, and I think there's another Haitian family living at the very beginning of Ash Street, right by the Dairy Queen. Cool.

Typically, I like to walk to the south side but this time, since it was already getting dark, I decided to wander deeper into the West. I didn't stop until I reached Hillberg Street, and once there, I paused by the mini-park, and sat on an old wooden bench under a massive tree. I like to come here sometimes, just to relax. We all need someplace to go and just chill when life's stresses get to us. It's part of what makes us human.

"What's up, sexy?" The deep, masculine voice snatching me out of my reverie belonged to my good buddy Jean-Karl Boudreau. I looked at the tall, handsome young Haitian dude I've known since H.S. and gave him a brotherly hug. Jean-Karl looked into my eyes, and I smiled. We've been through a lot, Jean-Karl and I. That's for damn sure.

"Hey, J.K. it's good to see you," I said, and Jean-Karl sat next to me on the bench, shielded from view by the thick foliage and the nearby trees. Impulsively I gave him a peck on the lips, and Jean-Karl kissed me back, then smiled and gently rubbed my face. I like it when he does that. In case you haven't guessed it by now, Jean-Karl and I are more than friends.

"You've got that stressed out look again, Stevie," Jean-Karl said, and he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and started lighting it when I shot him a look. He rolled his eyes and put the cigarette back in his pocket. I've admired Jean-Karl for as long as I've known him. Dude was the toughest guy in the JROTC club at our old high school, and now he's in the frigging U.S. Army National Guard. They're paying for his engineering studies at Bridgewater State University, how cool is that?

"J.K. my parents want to send me to Ottawa, and I think they're serious this time," I replied, and Jean-Karl sighed deeply. He shot me a disapproving look. Jean-Karl doesn't understand the dilemma I find myself in. Dude has a dorm where he stays at during the school year. His father Laurence Boudreau was in the U.S. Army until his retirement two years ago, so Jean-Karl's family supports his choice of career. I envy him. Seriously.

"Stevie, I think you got to man up and tell them no," Jean-Karl said, and I nodded, wondering if this dude knew what the hell I was dealing with at home. My parents are tyrants. There's simply no other word that describes them accurately. The fact that I'm nineteen years old, an intelligent and thoughtful young brother living in modern day America, means nothing to them. They simply must get their way.

While I do appreciate all they've done for me, I don't like having my parents control my every move. I swear the stuff we see in the news about trigger-happy cops gunning down brothers and getting away with it got them paranoid. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate their concern. I'm not a thug or a hustler. Just a young brother going to college and living my life. I used to work at the local Home Depot until I got laid off. Work, school and church, those are the only places I go. Welcome to my life.

"Man, let's go chill at your house," I said to Jean-Karl, and he smiled. We walked up to his house, which sat a hundred feet from the park. I was pleased to see zero cars in the driveway, meaning that Jean-Karl's father wasn't home. As soon as we got there, I showed my man how much I truly missed him. Seriously, it's been a week since I saw Jean-Karl, he'd gone to some U.S. Army duty thing, and I missed him like crazy.

"I can tell you missed me," Jean-Karl said, and he kissed me full and deep as we reached his living room. Off came my shirt and jeans, and so did Jean-Karl's clothes. I admired the sexy brother's well-muscled body as he undressed before me. Jean-Karl kind of looks like actor Tyrese Gibson, from the Transformers, Fast And The Furious and Four Brothers movies. I love me a dark-skinned, masculine brother. They're sinfully sexy.

"Oh yeah," I said as I kissed Jean-Karl again, and then I grabbed his dick and began stroking it. Jean-Karl's dick is long and thick, and uncut. I fell to my knees and worshipped at my chocolate prince's altar. I sucked Jean-Karl's dick with gusto, and when he came, I chugged down his manly seed like it was the nectar of Mount Olympus. Jean-Karl sighed happily, and I grinned, knowing he was ready to take my ass. I pulled a condom out of my wallet and waved it at Jean-Karl.

"Go for it," I said as I got on all fours, and after a brief hesitation, Jean-Karl got behind me. Dude grabbed the bottle of Aloe cream which conveniently sat on his living room table, and then I felt something cold and slick being applied on my asshole. Moments later, Jean-Karl pushed his dick into my ass, and I sighed happily. I'm a total bottom and love getting fucked. I like the feel of big black dicks in my ass and I cannot lie. Jean-Karl gripped my hips and pumped his dick into me. For a good hour he pounded away at me, and then finally, he pulled out.

Truth be told, I was kind of disappointed that Jean-Karl didn't fuck me a bit longer. I like to go for a ride, if you catch my drift. Have a well-endowed brother lie on the floor or in bed with his dick sticking upward, so I can suck it and then impale myself on it. There's nothing quite like the feel of a thick dick in your ass, folks. I get hard just thinking about it. Jean-Karl is usually better than that. I know exactly what, or rather, who is taking away my man's usual passion...

"That was fun," Jean-Karl said as we lay side by side, naked and sweaty, on his living room carpet. Jean-Karl knows how to fuck, man. A while ago, I was involved with this Italian chick named Brigida Antonelli, whom I met at school. I liked her a lot, and I was actually attracted to her. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I am a bisexual man. While I do love the black male body, I am not immune to the charms of women.

Five-foot-four, with curly reddish brown hair, alabaster skin and light brown eyes, Brigida Antonelli seemed like a dream come true when we met in the school library. Smart, sexy, tomboyish and as big a football fan as I am, Brigida was something else. I actually fell for her, I think. Too bad Brigida friend-zoned my ass, and then got with Marcus, this Jamaican dude I used to be friends with. Yeah, I've got lousy luck with the ladies.

"Wish we could be together always," I whispered, and Jean-Karl looked at me. Before he could reply, his phone buzzed. Dude picked it up, and then I heard the familiar voice of Rebecca "Becky" Winters, Jean-Karl's girlfriend. I've met the tall, curvy, blonde-haired and blue-eyed gal whom Jean-Karl is so fond of. Even though I'm no fan of Becky, I must admit she's one of a few white girls in Brockton who has a nice, big ass. She's studying Nursing at UMass-Boston and she's friends with Jean-Karl's older sister Nadine.

"What's up, babe? Word? You're coming over?" Jean-Karl said, and I saw panic in those chestnut eyes of his. I looked at Jean-Karl, sighed and nodded. I know the deal. I put my clothes back on, and exited the living room. I was halfway up the street when Becky drove by in her bright red Passat. I kept my head down as I walked the few blocks back to Ash Street. I love Jean-Karl but we're both Haitian males and gayness/bisexuality aren't tolerated in our community. I wish he could be mine, but it's not meant to be.

"Ottawa here I come," I said to myself as I went to bed that night. Oh, and um, before I went to sleep, I got a text message from Jean-Karl. Dude was super excited about the good news that his girlfriend Becky just delivered to him. Apparently, Becky is pregnant. My heart sank when I heard the news even though I forced a laugh and congratulated Jean-Karl. Looks like my man is going to build a future without me. Awesome.

I arrived in the City of Ottawa on May 17, 2016. Almost a month after Bay State College notified me by mail that they were putting me on academic probation. I said goodbye to friends and family in Boston, and decided to make a fresh start. For the first month or so, I stayed with my aunt Malvina, her husband Herbert and their adult daughters Myra and Christina in the Orleans sector of Ottawa. The place was alright, I guess. Canada and the U.S. aren't too different, or so I thought.

In the City of Boston, where I grew up, folks are fairly direct. Some are cool, some are not, but you always know where you stand. If I had to point out one key difference between Ottawa and Boston, I'd say that Ottawa's people are more passive aggressive and definitely more racist. I can't trust the people I meet out here, man. They beat you over the head with how diverse and multicultural Ottawa is, then they turn around and tell racist jokes about minorities. Cold fuckers, all of them.

"Ma'am, do you know the password for this computer?" I asked the twenty-something black lady sitting on the other side of the computer room. I was at a social services bureau located on Catherine Street, not far from the Greyhound Station near downtown Ottawa. I was sent by Aunt Malvina to the social services department because, well, she was losing patience with me. I was nearly broke and couldn't work in Ottawa due to the fact that as an American in Canada, I lacked a social security number and work permit.

"Sure, let's see," the lady replied, and then she got up and actually came over to help me. I swear my heart skipped a beat when she bent down and typed something into the little grid that appeared on the computer screen. Even with the long traditional skirt that she had on, I could tell that this lady had one hell of a booty on her. Hot damn.

"Thank you ma'am," I replied, and the lady looked me up and down and smiled. I took a good look at her. She was around five-foot-eight, curvy, with long black hair, and light brown skin. Got a body on her, the type that can only be described as voluptuous. Nice. Very nice. If I had to guess, I would say that she's from the nation of Somalia, like so many of the extremely beautiful and exotic ladies I saw walking around the City of Ottawa.

"Shukran, brother, my name is Mona Ibrahim," the lady said, and I extended my hand toward her. After a brief hesitation, Mona shook my hand. Thus I met the lady destined to change my life forever. Mona and I came from different worlds, but I swear, from that first moment, I knew that we were going to be tight, and I was totally right.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Mona, I'm Stephen Antoine, from Boston," I replied, and Mona looked me up and down. I guess they don't get a lot of black folks from the U.S. up here because a lot of people stare when I tell them that I'm from Boston. In this case, though, believe me when I tell you that I definitely do NOT mind the staring. Seriously.

"Oh wow, un noir Americain," Mona all but whispered, and I grinned and replied in the French that I remembered from my early days in Haiti. Mona's pretty face brightened up like a flower turning toward sunlight, and she looked at me appreciatively, and then asked me if I was Haitian. I smiled and nodded proudly, and then we sat together.

I was referred to the social services office on Catherine Street because I needed to apply for a lot of things, among them a work permit, a social insurance card and the like, so I could function in Ottawa on my own. My aunt Malvina and her brood were friendly to me for like a week or two, then they made it clear that their place wasn't a hotel. Translation? I wouldn't be staying long.

"Je suis venu a Ottawa pour le travail et les jobs," I said to Mona, and she nodded understandingly. The lovely Somali lady sat awfully close to me, and helped me register for an account with CIC, the Canadian immigration website. I used my Bank of America credit card to pay for it, and after applying for a work permit, I also applied for a study permit.

"You should apply for Canadian universities on the website OUAC, there's a lot of good schools in this very town," Mona said, and I nodded, and then sent an email to the registrar's office at Bay State College. I wanted them to mail me by transcripts to my new address in the town of Orleans, Ontario, even though I wouldn't be staying there long. Mona was so damn helpful it's not even funny.

"Thanks for your help, milady, at least let me buy you coffee," I said pleadingly to Mona, a few hours later. Seriously, this woman definitely knows her way around the system here in the City of Ottawa. Mona told me how she moved here from Somalia with her mother when she was younger and endured quite a bit as a Muslim woman in lily-white Canadian society. It couldn't have been easy but I could see it made her stronger...

"Merci beaucoup mon ami," Mona replied, and then, we went to the Greyhound Station nearby and sat in the little cafeteria, and I got us sandwiches and drinks. People stared at Mona and I a lot. I guess they're not used to seeing young Haitian men walk around with lovely Somali ladies, or perhaps, being politely bigoted bozos, they couldn't help staring at a couple of black folks they saw walking around. Whatever.

"Tell me more about yourself," I said to Mona, and she smiled and nodded. Over the next hour, I learned quite a bit about my unexpected helper and potential new friend. Mona was born in Somalia and raised in Ottawa, and she has a psychology degree from the University of Montreal. What's someone like her doing inside the social services office?

"My dear brother, you will learn that when you're black in Ottawa, they won't give you work even though you have a Canadian university degree and speak both languages, they're racist and stick together," Mona said flatly, and I noticed that a middle-aged white dude walking by snorted and looked in our direction. I looked at him challengingly and he kept on walking.

"My sister, you cannot let them break your spirit, I'm from Massachusetts, I was lucky enough to have voted for Governor Deval Patrick and President Obama, in the same lifetime, " I said proudly, and I gently touched Mona's hand. Mona looked at my hand, and I suddenly realized that I just met this woman and shouldn't cross such boundaries. Seriously, I'm a nice young Haitian man from Boston. I've got way better manners than that, I swear to whoever you want me to swear to.

"You're an interesting young man, Stephen, I'm glad we met," Mona said, and then she took something out of her purse and slipped it into my hand. It was a business card. It read "Mona Ibrahim, graphic designer", and had a fancy logo, some kind of drawing, and most importantly, the lovely lady's cell phone number. I smiled up at Mona as I pocketed the card, and she winked at me, thanked me for the grub, and walked away.

I sat there in the busy Greyhound Station terminal's little cafeteria, and watched the lovely Mona as she walked away. Look, I say this as a bisexual man who truly loves black dick, and I'm telling you that woman's big beautiful derriere had had me mesmerized by the way it moved. I swear I felt a stir down below. I hadn't noticed a female since the fiasco with Brigida Antonelli at Bay State College in Boston. Perhaps my luck will change in Ottawa...

Later that day, I caught the number seven bus heading to the Rideau Shopping Center from Carleton University. I looked at these students packing the bus, and noticed that they were of all hues. Africans. Arabs. Latinos. Chinese. And some ethnicities and races I didn't even recognize. Wow. I thought Ottawa was super-white, and that people of color were rare. Looks like I was wrong.

"What's your school like? I'm visiting from the U.S. and considering studying here," I said to a young black dude who sat next to me. The guy was wearing a black jacket that read Carleton Ravens football. When I struck up a conversation with him, he seemed surprised. I get it that a lot of white people in Ottawa don't like sitting next to blacks on the bus but don't local blacks stick together? After a brief hesitation, the young man, who introduced himself as Trevor something or other, smiled at me and started bragging about his school.

"Bro, check out Carleton University, we got a lot of people from every country on this planet, and we're a chill campus, as an American, you will love it," Trevor said, and we exchanged dap. Thus I met the first black Canadian dude whom I wasn't related to. I asked Trevor about the application process, and he referred me to the OUAC website, just like Mona did, earlier. Interesting.

"See you on campus one of them days," I said to Trevor as he exited the bus shortly before we reached the Rideau Shopping Center. I got off the bus, walked through the crowded Rideau mall and went upstairs to the bus station on Mackenzie King Bridge. I caught a super packed number ninety five bus heading to Orleans. I had to stand the entire time, surrounded by people who looked tired, angry, or both. I was smiling, though. Thoughts of Mona's thick ass swirled about my brain. Got me a boner, so I held my backpack in front of me for, ahem, concealment purposes.

"I really missed Ice Cube's comedies, thanks for bringing me to see Barbershop : The Next Cut, Stephen," Mona said to me, a week later, as we walked out of the Silver City movie theater in the east end of Ottawa. It's the theater closest to where I live, and it's become my refuge from my bossy aunt Malvina, her annoying husband Herbert and their mean daughters. I've always been a movie buff, and I was glad to see Mona was a kindred spirit...