Somali Lesbian Pussy Rocs

What goes on in people's bedrooms is nobody's business, alright? My name is Jessica Winston, but my friends call me J.W. I was born in the City of Kingston, the Capital of Jamaica, to a Jamaican mother and Caucasian father from Great Britain, whom I never knew. My mother, Astrid Winston and I moved to the City of Toronto, province of Ontario, ten years after I came into the world. Because of my exotic good looks, I'm always attracting both female and male attention. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, solid and curvy, with light brown skin, curly Black hair and pale green eyes. People are always asking me what my ethnicity is and I always answer Jamaican, because I'm proud of my origins.

These days, I'm studying civil engineering at the University of Toronto. My mother always stressed the value of education, she said it was the only way out of poverty for us minorities. When we first moved to Canada from Jamaica, mom worked at Tim Horton's restaurant as a cashier to pay the bills. At the same time, she went to Seneca College and studied Nursing. Nowadays, my mom works at the hospital as a nurse and I couldn't be prouder of her. Mom is dating a tall, good-looking Haitian guy named Guillaume Seraphim. I don't usually like the guys my mother brings home. I mean, I'm the result of a one-night-stand she had with a White guy she met at a hotel where she worked back in Jamaica. Seriously, she's got bad taste!

My mother's previous boyfriend, Ryan Connelly, was White and a mean bastard. He liked to smack her around. He also looked at me lustfully whenever he thought I wasn't looking. One night, I pulled a switchblade and pressed it against his groin, and I told him that if he ever lay a finger on my mom again I'd castrate him. He got the message and never showed his face at our house again. Good riddance. How do I feel about Guillaume, my mother's new boyfriend? He seems like a decent guy. Dude works for the Royal Bank of Canada as a branch manager and he's got an MBA from Ryerson University. He was married once, to a White lady, and he has a son who's my age, Dwight. Never met the guy, but Guillaume mentions him a lot. He's some kind of troublemaker.

Me? Although I consider myself bisexual, I mainly have relationships with men and casual fun with women. I recently got dumped by this chick named Amarah Muhammad. She was six feet tall, fine and sexy, born in the City of Calgary, Alberta, to a Somali mother and Yemeni father. Amarah and I met at the library on campus, and we just seemed to click. Even though she wore a really boring-looking gray dress and dark hijab, I found her sexy. I don't deal with religious people, whether they're Christian, Muslim or whatever, because I find all religions to be pure bullshit. However, I was attracted to Amarah Muhammad and I pursued her with a determination which surprised us both. At the time we met, Amarah was dealing with her emerging sexual identity. The young Somali Muslim chick just realized that she was gayer than a two-dollar bill and she was having a tough time with it because of her strict Islamic upbringing. I guess Islam is even less tolerant of gayness ( among other things ) than Christianity. Hmmm.

Amarah Muhammad and I began going out, and I was the first woman she ever had sex with. Ours was a really passionate relationship. Amarah told me that she had basically waited her entire life for someone whom she could share her tumultuous and hidden passions with and I was that person. I really cared about Amarah, ladies and gentlemen, I really did. The thing about Muslim women is that a lot of them are two-faced. In public, Amarah was straight-laced, to the point of being supremely boring and even standoffish. Put her around her Somali gal pals and her assortment of boring Arab friends and the wild and vivacious gal I cherished became a Koran-quoting, conservative-minded gal. In private, she was something else. She would eat my pussy so damn well that she made my toes curl. Also, she loved it when I would bend her over my knee and spank her, either with my hands or the wooden paddle she bought specifically for that reason. How about that?

Now, coming from the Jamaican community, I was very familiar with homophobia. In Jamaica, gays and lesbians are often persecuted and the island people aren't very tolerant of queerness. I grew up around mean Jamaican guys who would call other guys "batty man", which meant fag in the Jamaican patois language. I soon realized that the Arabs and Somalis I saw daily in the City of Toronto were far more homophobic than my fellow Jamaicans. In Jamaica, the queers get harassed. In Islamic societies, gays and lesbians are slaughtered, period. That's the world in which Amarah Muhammad was born. Wow. I tried to be understanding every time she explained her fears to me, I really did. In the end, though, our relationship was put under an enormous strain due to the fact that we had to sneak around. For her, detection meant certain death. I hated every moment of all the deception we had to spin around for her safety. In the end, just as I thought about leaving her, she dumped me. The following week, she married a Somali guy named Omar Hamoud, much to the delight of her parents. I guess she forgot about me completely.

I wasn't doing too well after I heard Amarah Muhammad got married, ladies and gentlemen. I went to this bar in the south end of Toronto, and got royally drunk. I went home with this red-haired plump White chick named Amanda Molson, whose family name sounded just like Canada's worst beer. I barely remember what we did together because the whole night was a blur. Amanda threw me out the next morning because her boyfriend was coming home. Too late, the dude was already there. A tall and ruggedly good-looking, light-skinned young Black man in a University of Toronto football jacket walked in. Dwight sweetie, Amanda greeted him with admirable false enthusiasm.

Dwight told her to her dumb mouth shut up, and glared at me. I saw murder in his eyes. He told me that I had sixty seconds to get out of his house, or else. Normally, I'd put up a fight but after the night I had, I just wanted to go home. I nodded at Dwight, and left. Before I took off, I squatted down to pee on his car hood after climbing on top of it. While I was perched up there, doing my business, I saw that Dwight had pictures on his car seat. One of them looked real familiar. A picture of Dwight standing next to an older Black guy. I smiled when I realized who it was. Guillaume Seraphim. The dude was Dwight's dad! I chuckled to myself as I ran through the parking lot of Amanda's building to catch the bus. What a world we live in! Guillaume was dating/banging my mom, and I just hooked up with his son Dwight's fat White slut of a girlfriend. Nice! I should go on Springer with this shit, for real. What do you think?