Posted on

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


A lot of guys meet a sexy woman and then groan with regret because she wouldn’t give them the time of day. Me? I have an entirely different perspective on these things ever since I got away from a witch named Aziza Catherine ‘A.C.’ Hussein. A tall, fine-looking Lebanese Christian diva who turned out to be my worst nightmare. I’m going to tell you all about it. My preacher and my shrink both say that confession is good for the soul. The name is Adam Wilkinson, and I’d like to tell you about the time I dodged a woman-shaped bullet.

I was born and raised in the City of Hartford, Connecticut. My father, Theodore James Wilkinson is originally from Surrey, southeast England, and my mother, Janine Thompson, is originally from the island of Jamaica. From their lovely union came little old me. I’m a biracial American, just like President Barack Obama. How cool is that? I’ve always been a fairly adventurous guy, I guess that’s why my journey through the higher education system has been bumpy, to say the least.

Long story short? I joined a fraternity shortly after enrolling at Trinity College, and my grades plummeted while my social life skyrocketed. I kind of, um, flunked out. Something to do with smoking weed in the Dean of Students office while getting my dick sucked by a cheerleader. Fed up with my antics, my parents decided to ship me to the most boring place on the planet. The City of Ottawa, Ontario. Somewhere in Canada. Yeah, they sent me to Canada, if you can believe it. My mother’s older brother, Uncle Lloyd, lives in Ottawa with his Jewish wife Shari Eisenberg and their daughter Lucy. It was decided that I would stay with them while attending Carleton University.

At first, I absolutely hated the City of Ottawa and everything it stood for. The place weirds me out, man. Now, my beloved Hartford is a fairly diverse town. We’ve got a lot of African-Americans, Hispanics and Asians. In Ottawa, I ran into a lot of people I’d never seen before, like Arabs, Somalis and Turks, and people whose ethnicities I could only guess at. Damn. The place was confusing, even though, in some ways, Ottawa resembles a typical American town as long as you don’t look too closely.

Resignedly, I decided to make the most of my time in this place. I figured that if my grades picked up, my parents would let me come back to New England and resume my life at another school in Hartford. I missed my friends, I missed Dunkin Donuts, and I also missed the New England Patriots. Canadians don’t know shit about football, though I’ll watch a CFL game over anything related to hockey any day of the week. Sorry, but to me, the only sports worth watching or playing are football, basketball and baseball. In that order. Any questions? Good!

When I first set foot on the Carleton University campus, I was in for a surprise. The place totally blew me away. I figured it would be lily-white, since it’s a Canadian school and all, but I was completely and utterly wrong. On my first day I saw dark-skinned girls wearing hijab and speaking Arabic, Hindu guys wearing turbans, Arab guys wearing Kufi hats while carrying the Koran tucked under their arm and nerdy Asian dudes with their laptops in the atrium. Wow.

It’s during that fateful first day at school that I met the femme fatale destined to put the fear of God in me. I saw her walking through the university center. Actually, I noticed her big round ass practically sashaying from side to side in some tight-ass blue jeans from a distance of almost a hundred feet. Like the thirsty mofo I am, I started salivating and I hadn’t even seen the lady’s face. I followed her all the way to the campus library, where I pretended to be lost and asked her for directions. Smiling at me, she gave me extensive directions to a class I wouldn’t have until much later, and sort of noticed my thick New ısparta escort England accent. That was the opener I needed, so I took the opportunity to introduce myself.

Now, a lot of guys would be intimidated by Aziza Hussein, and with good reason, as I would later discover. Standing five-foot-eleven, with the face of an angel, the body of an Olympic athlete and the type of killer ass that porn stars would envy, this bronze-skinned, raven-haired Lebanese-Canadian beauty was a civil engineering student. We’re talking the original triple threat, folks. Brains, body and booty. Hot damn. I thanked my lucky stars when she consented to adding me as a friend on Facebook, and acquiesced when I invited her for coffee a few days later.

Given how hot she is, Aziza Hussein should have had a lot of guys sniffing after her for a taste of her sweet goodies. Yet I basically had no competition when I began pursuing her. That alone should have tipped me off. If you see a hot chick and she’s got virtually no female friends and guys are staying away from her, then there’s something seriously wrong with her. Sadly, I was thinking with a lower part of my body, if you catch my drift. So I ignored those warning signs, and began going out with this lovely gal.

At first, everything was awesome. Aziza Hussein and I made for one cute couple. I’m six-foot-one, a bit chubby since I stopped playing football with my friends but I still look good. Like a lot of biracial people, I inherited the best of both worlds from my parents. From my British-American father I got my curly black hair and emerald eyes, and from my mother I got my caramel skin tone. People say I look like Chris Brown, only a little bit lighter. I’ve sometimes been mistaken for Hispanic but I always tell people the truth about my parentage. I’m mixed, and equally proud of my white father and Jamaican-American mother.

As good as I looked, I must admit that I was nothing compared to Aziza Hussein. This Lebanese-Canadian beauty was something else, and she was no slouch in the brains department. Aziza was one of the top students in the civil engineering program at Carleton, and she was absolutely devoted to the Lebanese church she attended on weekends. Before I met her, I had no idea that Arab Christians existed. I thought everyone in the Middle East was Muslim, and also loud, bearded and anti-American. Sorry, but that’s how they’re portrayed on CNN and Fox News. Thanks to Aziza, I learned better.

The gorgeous new woman in my life was complex, to say the least. One of the things I loved about her was her absolute confidence. Aziza walked into every room like she owned the place, like a lioness on the savannah, and I admired that about her. That’s partially because I’m the same way. My father is an Oxford-educated businessman who moved to the United States of America, started working in real estate and became a multimillionaire before he turned thirty. My mother has a law degree from Harvard University and teaches part-time at the University of Connecticut’s Criminal Justice Department. Believe me when I tell you that I come from good stock and I make sure everyone knows it. Aziza came from a similar background. Her father, Antoine Hussein moved to Ontario, Canada, from Baalbek, Lebanon, in the 1980s, studied at McGill University and owns a chain of Lebanese restaurants in Ottawa, Gatineau, Montreal and Toronto.

Aziza seldom mentioned her mother, Mira Hussein, and I guess that’s partly because she died when Aziza was real young. Growing up motherless, the daughter of a shrewd and ambitious businessman, Aziza learned to be ruthless from early on. Yet this tough and sexy gal had a vulnerable side, and she chose to share it with me. What can I say? I’ve got that effect on women. Alright, in all seriousness, I had fallen for kars escort Aziza and I was thrilled to discover that she’d fallen for me too. I revealed my feelings to her as we dined inside East Side Mario’s one evening. It was our three-month anniversary, you see.

There we were, a well-dressed young couple sitting in a nice restaurant, and I got the uncharacteristic urge to blurt out my feelings to Aziza. Yeah, like one of those fools in romantic comedies, I told her how I felt. When I finished, she just sat there and stared at me. My heart thundered in my chest, and I wondered why she didn’t say anything. Didn’t she feel the same way? Aziza looked into my eyes, and a slow smile crept into her gorgeous face. Smiling, she gently reached for my hand and then kissed me. Yup, she kissed me first. I’m an internationally known player, and she actually surprised me. How about that?

After our kiss, Aziza looked into my eyes and told me that she was falling for me. Grinning, I told her I felt the same way. Her serious expression softened and she told me that she believed me, but promised me that if I cheated on her I’d regret it. I smiled and promised her that I only had eyes for her. We finished our dinner, then walked out of the restaurant hand in hand. I considered myself lucky to have someone like Aziza in my life. I mean, she was gorgeous, smart and ambitious. We had all the makings of a power couple.

Yeah, I was totally into Aziza. We took many pictures together and plastered them all over Facebook, and became well-known faces in various social circles on campus. I attended a gala with her at the National Arts Center downtown, and the sight of her in a bright red, sparkly evening gown took my breath away. I looked decent in my tuxedo, but she was simply magnificent. Not a day went by that I didn’t thank my lucky stars for having her in my life. Typically, whether Christian or Muslim, Arab girls don’t date black men. There’s a lot of racism against blacks in the Arab world. Yet Aziza didn’t care about that.

Strong-minded and fiercely independent, Aziza Catherine Hussein did whatever she wanted and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. The lady wanted to be with me, and nothing would get in her way. I was nervous about meeting her dad, but Aziza promised me it would be okay. Her old man was nice enough. From watching her with him, I soon realized that Antoine Hussein was terrified of his daughter, just like everyone who ever met her. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. When my parents visited me in Ottawa during Christmas break, Aziza charmed the hell out of them. They totally loved her!

All things considered, the universe was dropping me hints the size of Mount Rushmore that my lady love Aziza Catherine Hussein was nuttier than a nutcracker. Of course, I was mesmerized by her ass and magnetic personality so I ignored them. I should mention that she had the sexual appetite of a porn star. I still shudder when I think of that time we fucked in the washroom of the N.A.C. I mean, I’ve done some freaky things but this dame put me to shame, man.

Aziza made me lean against the washroom wall ( after we blocked the exit ) and then got on her knees. Unzipping my pants, she freed my eight-inch, uncircumcised caramel dick. Without hesitation, Aziza began sucking my dick as if it were a lollipop. Man, she got me right where she wanted me. While sucking my dick, Aziza slid a finger up my ass, and almost made me cum right then and there. I groaned weakly as she sucked me like there was no tomorrow, and when I came, she drank every last drop of my seed. Afterwards, Aziza got up, told me to fix my clothes and then washed her mouth over the sink. I watched her as she readjusted her clothes, fixed her makeup and lipstick, and then grabbed my arm, escorting me out of the N.A.C. washroom kastamonu escort as if nothing had happened. Phew!

Aziza Catherine Hussein, my smart and sexy, passionate and carefree, yet occasionally terrifyingly bossy girlfriend. I couldn’t get enough of her. Things were wonderful between us…until they weren’t. We were hanging out in the university center food court, just eating and talking, when some chick walked by. I kind of looked, since big-booty gals of any color always catch my eye. Wrong move. Before I knew it, Aziza’s hand lashed out and slapped my face loudly. I stared at her, stunned. My girlfriend’s beautiful face twisted into a mask of rage, and she began cussing me out and accusing me of cheating on her. I protested my innocence, and that’s when she slapped me again, and threw a drink at me. Scared shitless, I high-tailed it out of there. Man, what the fuck happened?

I went to my Uncle Lloyd’s house in the suburb of Orleans, wondering what the fuck happened. I called Aziza, and got no answer. The next day, I ran into her in the Loeb building café and Aziza acted as if nothing had happened. I mean, the lady slapped the shit out of me yesterday and then walked up to me and kissed me the next day as if everything was copacetic. What the fuck, man? I sat Aziza down and told her we had to talk. I’m not one of those guys who likes to get hit by women. I mean, I let Aziza do me with a strap-on once but that was just for fun. I looked Aziza in the eye and told her that we needed a break. Smiling, she told me that she would make my life pure hell until I came back to her. Then she got up and walked away.

That’s how my nightmare began. Aziza Catherine Hussein turned my existence into a living hell. First, she started spreading rumors about my sexuality on campus. The strap-on episode wasn’t something the black dudes I hung out with on campus approved of. They started questioning my sexuality, and calling me a faggot behind my back. What the fuck? Just because a man likes to get fucked by a woman wearing a strap-on dildo doesn’t make him gay or bisexual. Last time I checked, any sexual activity between a man and a woman, no matter how unusual, is considered heterosexual.

Aziza and I were through, but my attempts at letting her know fell on deaf ears. This broad simply wasn’t trying to hear it. What’s a brother trying to do? I tried talking to my professors and friends about it, but no one would take me seriously. It got really bad, too. On Facebook, Aziza deleted me as a friend but started a cyber war against me. This crazy bitch was calling my phone and leaving threatening messages, and she was telling people that I was the one doing that shit to her. One day, I came to school and got told by campus police that I was to keep my distance from Aziza. What the fuck? I’ve been keeping away from her for ages, she’s the one who’s been hassling me! Of course, my protests fell on deaf ears.

Finally, I broke down, man. I was tired of this shit. It got to the point that I was afraid to come to school. I was afraid of the stunts Aziza and her cabal might pull. I sat my uncle Lloyd and aunt Shari down, and told them what I’d been enduring at Carleton. My uncle, aunt and cousin came to campus with me, and we talked to the Dean. She said she’d have a talk with Aziza, and we arranged for a meeting. Aziza came to the meeting with her dad, and as I expected, she played the role of the victim.

Fortunately, I had one trick up my sleeve. I’d saved all of the threatening messages she left on my voice mail, and put them on speaker. I played them in front of everybody. Man, you should have seen the look on Aziza’s face when I did that. I smiled at her, and shrugged. Victory was mine that day. In the end, Aziza got a stern warning from the Dean. They told her that if she hassled me, she’d get expelled. Finally, the bitch left me alone. I walked out of the meeting with my family, and breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in ages. I just got my life back. Lesson learned, folks. Stay away from crazy women, no matter how beautiful they might be. Peace.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir