Indonesian Princess for Blac Stud

Is there something wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? Every time I see a pretty gal walking by wearing a Hijab I get an instant boner. The name is Lucas Abdullah Wallace. I was born in the City of Odessa, Texas, to a Jamaican-American father and Lebanese Christian mother. My parents, Esther Abdullah and Luke Wallace met while at the University of Houston, and they've been together ever since. Got hitched shortly before I was born. There's a story there but I'll tell it to you some other time. This here story is all about me.

Growing up the son of an interracial couple in Texas could get dicey at times. In the Deep South folks tend to be expressive with their bigotry. My mother is Lebanese-American but since most rednecks can't place Lebanon on a world map they tend to assume she's Italian. Black guy/white female couples tend to attract the most scrutiny while in public but my folks didn't let that stop them. We of the Wallace clan are a good-looking, prolific bunch. I have an older brother, Jonathan Khalid Wallace, and he's studying civil engineering at Georgia Tech while playing football. He recently got engaged to a Puerto Rican honey named Marcia Gutierrez. Maybe having a fascination for exotic women runs in my blood, you know? I mean, how many people in North America have Afro-Caribbean and Arabian heritage? Yeah, that's what I thought.

In the fall of 2012, I had the world on a string. I was on the University of Houston men's varsity soccer team and we were having a great time. It was our first return to the NCAA Division One after many years as a club team. Yeah, things were looking up. As a six-foot-two, lean and muscular brother with caramel skin, curly black hair and amber eyes, I know most people look at me and think I'm either a football player or a baller. I've never been into football or basketball. Soccer is my sport, man. I get that from my father, who used to play for the national team of Jamaica before moving to the U.S.

Yeah, life was alright, but like many men, I had a weakness for the ladies. And it proved to be my downfall. Artemis Kensington is one of those chicks who has trouble written all over her, but dumbasses like myself can't stay away from her. If you saw her you'd understand. Even after all this time and all the things she's done to me, I still shudder when I think of her. Five feet eleven inches tall, with a sexy, curvy body, big round ass and big tits, she was all that and then some. Born to a white father and Peruvian mother, Artemis was one sexy Latina. Her curves, bronze skin, dark hair and dark eyes appealed to me immensely, as did her big heart-shaped ass. I wanted some of that the first time I saw her, walking through the University of Houston library like she owned the place.

I approached Artemis, and got them digits. I hollered at her and she was mad cold to me but I relentlessly pursued her until she gave in and began going out with me. Artemis and I made for one hot couple. I mean, I'm on the Men's Soccer team and she's on the Women's Rugby team. Everywhere we went people commented on what a cute couple we made. I was falling hard for this chick, man. She was simply mesmerizing. Having someone like her in my life, a woman of great intelligence and beauty, with ambitions to spare, now that was a dream come true. Unfortunately, fate had a rude awakening in store for both of us. One night, I hosted a party with my teammates at my house while my parents were visiting my paternal uncle Bernard Wallace and his new white wife Stacey O'Keefe in the City of Toronto, Ontario. My folks were gone for four days, man, I had the place to myself. How could I NOT throw a party?

Naturally, my lady love Artemis was invited, and she came along with some of her girlfriends. We had some hot music blaring and the liquor was flowing. People were doing the bump and grind everywhere from my living room to the kitchen. Now, it's been said that if you mix dudes, chicks and alcohol, trouble is soon to follow. One of my teammates, a tall, red-haired white dude named Thad Winston, made a pass at Artemis best friend, a big-booty Black chick named Sholonda Jones or Johnson, something like that. Now, Thad is a bit of a jackass but I refuse to believe he did what Sholonda accused him of doing. She said that while they were chilling on the balcony, away from prying eyes, he tried to rape her. Thad swore he didn't do, and Sholonda cried rape. An irate Artemis called the cops, and that's when everything started to go wrong.

Long story short? Artemis decision to support her girlfriend Sholonda's rape allegations against my teammate Thad drove a rift between us. Especially after the school authorities got involved. The administration decided that the Men's Soccer team of the University of Houston would be temporarily suspended. We'd have to forsake the whole season. Scholarships would be in danger of being revoked. Our reputations were all tarnished for the case made national headlines. In the end, the District Attorney of Houston, Texas, declined to press sexual assault charges against my buddy Thad.

Nobody else from the Men's Soccer team got charged either. No trial. Nada. Yet the damage was done. We were social pariahs in the eyes of many. I was disappointed in the school and the media for how they handled Sholonda's phony rape accusation. Honestly, if I could have, I would have sued that bitch for defamation of character. The investigators did a rape kit and didn't turn up shit. The bitch lied, end of story. We should have received a public apology but we didn't get one from the school, the media or all those creeps on YouTube who posted nasty videos about us. I dropped out of University of Houston, since I honestly didn't want to be there. I didn't want anything to do with them people. The following semester, I just worked and hung out with my buddies. I was drifting aimlessly, wondering what my next move would be. That's when my parents suggested that I go to Canada for a while.

Once upon a time, when I first visited Canada during the summer after my high school graduation, I thought the place was lily-white and boring. Now that I hated Houston and everything in it, I felt like Canada might be the perfect place for a fresh start. That's why I transferred to the University of Toronto. I went to stay with my uncle Bernard Wallace and his wife Stacey O'Keefe. While studying at the University of Toronto I experienced a whole new world. There were so many students from places like Somalia, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Pakistan, Eritrea, Saudi Arabia, Ethiopia, Haiti, Brazil, South Africa and Lebanon on campus. I thought I was at the United Nations or something! I made lots of new friends at this all-Canadian campus, and embraced my new life.

Did I forget all about my old life back in Houston? I sure as hell tried to, but Artemis and her stunning betrayal and the scandal that followed continued to haunt my dreams. During the fall of 2013, I decided to focus on school instead of chasing girls. The last thing I needed was someone like Artemis in my life. Now, try as I might, I couldn't stop noticing the pretty ladies of all hues who walked through the U of T campus. I also became fascinated by the Hijab-wearing Muslim girls I saw on campus. They mystified me, to tell you the truth. We definitely don't have a lot of women like that back in Texas. Yeah, I was all about the books, not the females. That's what I told myself anyway. Women are so much trouble, man! And yet, the one I ended up falling for surprised the hell out of me. I'm referring of course to Nadira Gumelar, the young Indonesian-Canadian Muslim woman I met through some rather odd circumstances.

I truly love the City of Toronto and the University of Toronto campus but I should have remembered that no environment is without predators of some sort. One Friday night, while walking through a part of town I didn't know, I heard a woman screaming. Instinctively I headed toward the sound, and saw a young woman wearing a veil being assaulted by three white guys in a dark alley. Leave her alone, I said as I rushed the bozos. One of them grabbed the chick and threw her against the wall, then the other two came at me.

No disrespect to any Canadian reading this but your men aren't good brawlers ( with the exception of the stalwart UFC sportsman George Saint Pierre, whom I respect ) at all. I grew up on the mean streets of Texas, getting taunted by racists because my family was multiracial. I can fight gun-toting racist rednecks, the type that used to hang black folks on trees a generation or two ago. I'm not afraid of a pair of hockey-loving geeks. I waded into them, and royally kicked their asses. Lucky for me they weren't armed. They took off, but not before shouting the N-word and calling me Muslim scum. I'm Muslim? Ha! I wear a cross, you idiots! Not the sharpest pencils in the box, that's for sure.

I looked at the young woman who lay on the floor, and gently picked her up. I looked into her face, and saw that she had a nasty cut on her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open, and widened with fear. Damn, why is everyone always afraid of the Black man? She muttered something in a language I didn't understand. You're safe now, I said. Put me down please, she pleaded. I did as she asked, and told her I could call the cops or an ambulance. After a brief hesitation, she nodded. I'm Lucas, I said, by way of introduction, offering her my hand. She didn't shake it. I didn't think much of it at the time. I thought she must be in shock or something. About five minutes later the cops showed up. A tall white dude and a chick who looked Mexican or Arab. I saw three white guys attacking this chick and jumped in to help her, I said. The cops looked at me suspiciously, then at the silent broad. Inwardly I sighed. Black man saves a female in peril and the cops look at him like he's the suspect. Doesn't matter where you go in the world, cops are racist dickheads. Of course, I kept those thoughts to myself. Is that true? The white male cop asked the Hijab-wearing chick. She looked at him, then at me. Shyly she smiled. This man saved me, she said. I sighed in relief. The white cop looked disappointed. I bet he was hoping she'd implicate me and he'd get to arrest me. Better luck tomorrow piglet, I thought smugly.

The cops took statements from both of us, they asked me for my ID and seemed disappointed that I only had my University of Toronto picture ID in my wallet. They were still hassling me about that when the ambulance showed up and whisked the Hijab chick away. The white cop offered me a ride home, and I hastily declined. I've never been inside a police vehicle and I'm not about to start, I told him. Suit yourself, he said with a shrug. The minority policewoman with him noted my accent and asked me where I'm from. People ask that question a lot in Canada, especially if you're a minority. Ma'am I'm from Texas, I said with a curt nod before wishing them a good night and walking away.

I went home that night wondering how come trouble follows me everywhere I went, usually in the form of a woman. I was all too well aware of the fact that if this Hijab chick hadn't told the cop I was her savior, they would have hauled me in even though three white dudes did the crime and not me. I read about Jonathan Ferrell, a former FAMU football player who got shot ten time by the cops while seeking help after getting into a serious car accident in North Carolina. Man, I hope that white cop who shot him gets some serious jail time.

I swear all cops are murderous racists, man. They're so trigger-happy when dealing with Black men! We need someone to police the police, and hold them accountable when they pull their racist stunts. Canada's got the right idea, somewhat. In Ontario there's an agency called the Special Investigations Unit that investigates cops who break the law. They've brought second-degree murder charges against a Toronto cop who shot a young man named Sammy Yatim nine times during an incident on a bus. Good thinking! Maybe when society starts holding trigger-happy racist cops accountable, when their badge can't save their asses from the slammer after fucking up, they'll start thinking twice before killing innocent people. If you want bad behavior to decrease in an individual or a group, punish it. It's that simple, ladies and gentlemen. That's all there is to it.

Anyhow, I digress. Sorry, I get worked up about certain things. I'm still stewing about George Zimmerman's acquittal in Trayvon Martin's murder. Here's to hoping that Zimmerman gets what he deserves someday. I went back to my uncle and aunt's place, and told them about the incident. You're really lucky, my uncle Bernard told me. Toronto cops are just like the ones back in Houston, I said with a shrug. They're allergic to our skin tone, I quipped, exchanging dap with my uncle. Aunt Stacey frowned but said nothing. This white chick is married to a black man and she frowns when we're talking about police racism? Maybe she should have married a white dude. If she can't back up a brother when he needs her, what good is she? Of course I didn't tell my uncle these things. It's his marriage not mine.

I went back to school, and settled into my daily routine. One day, while checking out some porn on a quiet corner of the University of Toronto library, I got busted by someone. Hello, said a feminine voice. I whirled around, and found myself looking into a vaguely familiar face. Hello Lucas, said a very pretty young Asian woman. She was short and curvy, wearing a silvery Hijab along with a long-sleeved ebony T-shirt featuring The Walking Dead logo and some tight-ass blue jeans. Do I know you? I said, hastily clicking off the Blacks On Cougars interracial porn site. I love watching black men banging older white women. Interracial MILF porn rocks! Getting busted watching porn in the school library by a Hijab-wearing Muslim chick carrying a Koran tucked under her arm? Not so cool.

I am Nadira, she said, extending a small hand. Hesitantly, I shook it, not realizing the significance of that simple gesture. Observant Muslim women who wear the Hijab don't typically shake hands with random guys. Good to meet you, I said, scratching my head and wondering where I knew her from. You saved me the other night and I've been looking for you all over town to thank you, she said. It's alright lady no worries, I said. Smiling, she asked me where I came from. I'm from Texas, I said proudly. Nadira's smile widened, brightening her beautiful face. I'm from the City of Mataram in Indonesia, she said evenly. Cool, I said, as if I knew where in hell that was. I'm going to lunch would you care to join me? Nadira asked. I looked at the pretty Asian chick in the long skirt and the Hijab. What do you think I said?

I didn't know it at the time but this meeting would change my life. Nadira and I became friends, and she introduced me to a whole new world. There's a lot of Muslims at the University of Toronto and they're a very diverse group racially speaking. Through Nadira I met quite a few of them. A few of them were cold and distant towards me because I'm a Christian but most of them were cool. I became friends with a tall black dude named Omar Khaled, he's from Somalia. He's studying bio-chemistry at the University of Toronto and like me, he's had a few run-ins with the Po-Po.

Racism is everywhere, Omar said, and he told me about how he and his girlfriend, a Pakistani chick named Pooja, couldn't let her family find out she was dating him, lest they do some serious harm to her. Some things never change, I grumbled sympathetically. Nadira sighed, and said that not everyone was like that but neither Omar nor myself paid heed. All non-whites in Canada endure one form of prejudice or another but we blacks bear the brunt of it. Nadira simply couldn't understand. After all, she told me she'd only been in Canada for eighteen months at the time we met.

Nadira and I began hanging out together fairly often. I was quite intrigued by her faith and her culture and she was fascinated by all things American. Like a lot of Canadians, she asked if I had a horse and a gun once I told her that I grew up in Texas. Not everyone in the Lone Star State's packing, dammit! Truth be told, the more time we spent together, the more I liked her. I thought Hijab-wearing Muslim chicks were reserved, repressed and stuffy. Not true! Nadira was anything but a square! The five-foot-four, quiet and seemingly innocent Indonesian gal cursed like a sailor, chain-smoked cigarettes, and she considered Alexander Keith's her beer of choice.

On Tuesdays, we typically went to the movies together, partly because neither of us had afternoon classes that day and partly because it's cheaper. Sometimes we hung out with Omar and his girlfriend Pooja. The Pakistani chick is alright, she's around five-foot-eight, with curly black hair, bronze skin and dark eyes. Kind of reminds me of the Hollywood actress Salma Hayek, only with a much bigger ass. I discretely asked Omar if he's smashed that one night while we were in the theater watching Riddick. The movie hadn't begun yet and Nadira and Pooja had gone to the washroom. I smashed it doggy-style my brother, Omar said with a lap. I shook his hand, congratulating the brother on a job well-done. What about you and Nadira? he asked. I shrugged resignedly. Omar laughed. I shot him a look. He was still laughing when the girls returned and the previews ended.

Omar and Pooja were all over each other, kissing and groping. Nadira and I sat next to each other, and we were as chaste as can be. I felt frustrated. Alright, I admit it, I'm attracted to Nadira, and I haven't the faintest clue about how to go about pursuing her. Does she like black people? Hmm. She's friends with Omar so I'd say yes. Is my Christian faith a turn-off? Does she even date? I know that she bends the rules of her Muslim faith by drinking and all but maybe dating someone like me was a big no-no for her? So many questions, so few answers. At some point during the movie, my arm brushed against hers, and I awkwardly apologized. Relax, Nadira said, laying her small, soft hand on top of mine. My heart skipped a beat. I looked at her in the dark and she smiled at me. I entwined my hand with hers. Better now? she asked slyly. Much better, I nodded.

The movie ended, and the four of us went to grab some pizza and drinks at a nearby mall. After hanging out for about an hour, we parted ways. Omar and Pooja left us, probably heading to his place for an afternoon delight. Nadira and I stood there, looking at each other. Let's talk, she said. I nodded, and we sat at a table, an empty cup and a sea of unsaid words between us. Do you like me Lucas? Nadira asked, something unreadable in her eyes. Yes, I said evenly. Nadira smiled, and nodded.

My beautiful Nadira I care for you a lot but we're from different worlds, I said, shrugging. From what I know of Islam, the men can date and marry whoever they want but the women can only be with the men of their faith. If Nadira and I decided to be together, we'd run into more trouble than Romeo and Juliet because we're from different races and different religions. As if reading my mind, Nadira scoffed. Every woman lives her life her way, Nadira said coyly. Suddenly serious, she locked eyes with me. Are you going to ask me out or what, American cowboy? she said, rolling her eyes. I smiled. It'll be you and me, I said. Good answer Mister Texas, Nadira grinned. Suddenly her face was inches from mine. There was a playful look on her beautiful face, and I swear, corny as that sounds, that her light brown eyes sparkled. I leaned forward, and kissed Nadira. And that's how it all began.

My relationship with a beautiful Indonesian Muslim woman, a fellow international student at the University of Toronto. We're dating, and quite honestly, I've never been happier. A lot of men from other religions find Muslim women fascinating but stay away from them because they're afraid. These men should do what I did, get to know the lady in question, while respecting her faith and her ways. If she cares for you and wants to be with you, she'll find a way. Women are crafty, for good and for ill. Trust me, once they want something, only God Himself can stop them. It's all up to her, no matter what the rules of society, culture or religion say. How else would you explain Nadira and I? A tall black man from Texas and a gorgeous pixie from Indonesia ( Nadira hates it when I call her that but she insists on calling me cowboy ) walking around the University of Toronto campus, holding hands and laughing? Never say never, ladies and gentlemen. There's always a way, if you want something badly enough.