Bisexual Men of Barrhaven

"Racism against black Muslims, is indeed one of the dirtiest little secrets of Islam," I said to myself as I walked down Hadrian Street, on my way to Marketplace Station in the plush Barrhaven suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. Just another sunny day in the Canadian Capital, and a Hijab-wearing Arab lady just switched sidewalks when she saw me coming. Wonderful. I wonder what the rest of the day holds for me.

My name is Morris Farrell Kale, but you can call me Brother Mustafa, it's my Islamic name. I am a recent convert to Islam, and I love my religion. The behavior of my fellow Muslims sometimes irks me, but I love my faith. I was born in the City of Cornwall, Ontario, to a Jamaican immigrant father, Edwin Kale, and a white Canadian mother, Martina Beaulieu. Believe me when I say I'm no stranger to adversity.

I moved to Ottawa to study at Carleton University. These days, I live in Barrhaven with my uncle Kelvin Kale, my father's younger brother. He works for the Canadian government and has a house out here. I pay rent and help Uncle Kelvin out with stuff. It's not a bad life. Growing up in a small, lily-white town, the only son of an interracial couple, I've endured my share of racism. That's why I left Cornwall for the big city. I thought things would be better here in Ottawa. I was so frigging wrong.

Seeing people switch sidewalks when they see me coming, or spit on the ground, or suddenly cough in my direction, all these things are not new. The thing about folks from small towns is that they're brutally honest about their likes and dislikes. I'm used to dealing with them. They don't intimidate me in the least. I can handle whatever they throw at me. They're only dangerous in large numbers. One on one I can handle them because they can't fight worth a damn.

The City of Ottawa is much larger than Cornwall, the town where I was born and raised, and far more racially diverse. With so many Africans, Arabs, Latinos and Asians living in Ottawa, I thought the local whites would be friendlier and more tolerant, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. Big-city folks are just as bigoted as small-town folks, they're just more passive-aggressive and discrete about it. This makes them more dangerous if you ask me.

"Can I help you?" I said pointedly to the old white lady who glared at me as I opened up the green box containing the Metro newspapers. I grabbed one, and took a look at the headline. The local media is still going on about a certain Conservative politician, a senator who faced numerous charges of fraud and misconduct, and apparently got away with all of it. Sounds like an Ottawa politician to me.

The old white lady said nothing, and I shrugged and browsed through the newspaper. I was halfway through the sports section when the 95 Bus pulled up, and I held up my wallet, displaying my bright green U-Pass to the driver, a middle-aged plump white dude in a dark blue uniform. I sat in the middle of the bus, my favorite spot, and the old white lady from before sat across from me, her lips pursed, staring at me while pretending not to. Great.

Not that it matters, but for the record, I'll state it. I'm dressed professionally. Long-sleeved gray silk shirt, black tie and black silk pants. Black Timberland boots. I work as a manager at one of the numerous Telus stores in the City of Ottawa. It's nine o'clock in the morning and I'm taking a summer class at Carleton University. I don't work till three o'clock in the afternoon, but I don't feel like going home after my eleven o'clock class. I'd rather go straight to work.

The point I'm trying to make is that I'm a hard-working professional and a university student. Not a thug. Not that any of this matters to the bozos I seem to attract like a magnet. Or perhaps the fact that I'm a six-foot-one, burly, handsome and well-dressed person of color intimidates them. Whatever.

What those bozos don't realize is that Ottawa's demographics are changing. We who are called minorities are changing the game. Like us or hate us, we are here to say. The bus finally reaches Bayview Station and I hop off. I walk down that steep little hill on my way to the O-Train. The bright red train pulls into the station right as I reach the bottom of the hill. It's practically empty. Wonderful.

I sit in the first car, and look out the window as the train gets on its way. I try not to think of recent events. That's right, dear reader, I've got bigger problems than the closeminded bozos I encounter on a daily basis. I've got woman trouble...and man trouble. Um, sorry if it's a shocker but I am bisexual. I do it with girls and guys. Male bisexuality does exist. Get over it.

"Mustafa, I can't take this bullshit anymore, I'm leaving," those are the words that my former paramour, Henry Singh said hotly last night. I looked at the tall, barrel-chested young man with whom I shared so many passionate moments, and all I could do was shrug. Our relationship was coming to an end, and I honestly can't say that I didn't see it coming. We've had our fun, but Henry had become something of a problem lately.

"Cool, if that's what you want," I replied, and Henry glared at me angrily, his thick eyebrows arching over his dark eyes. I used to love looking into his eyes after making love, or fucking, whatever you want to call it. Tall, dark and handsome, born to a Jamaican immigrant mother and a Hindu father, Henry was something else. That rare mix of good looks, intelligence and sex appeal. Too bad he's a bit needy, and has an ego the size of Montana.

I watched Henry walk away, and felt a pang of regret. I regretted the end of our relationship. I shall miss Henry's ass. Dude is a power bottom all the way. One of those rare masculine guys who love a big dick up the ass and doesn't apologize for it. I remember that time when we got it on one night in the men's washroom on the first floor of Minto Center, and it was absolutely fantastic.

"Let's do it here," Henry said to me in that deep, sexy voice of his, and he looked so damn good in his burgundy Carleton Engineering leather jacket that I actually agreed to this impromptu hook up. Henry grinned and unzipped my pants, then grabbed my long and thick dark dick. I smiled as my favorite stud got on his knees and took care of me. Henry sucked my dick with gusto, and had me hard as hell in no time.

"Gimme that ass," I said as I pulled a condom from my wallet. I always come prepared, ladies and gentlemen. I bent Henry over the washroom counter, pulled down his pants and smacked his plump ass before sliding my dick inside. Henry groans as I penetrate him. I fucked him real good before we were rudely interrupted by cleaning staff. Good times. Henry has a sweet ass and I shall miss fucking it. Frankly, it's the only reason why I bothered putting up with him.

"Forget you, Henry," I said to myself as I headed to the University Center building at a brisk pace, once I got off the O-Train. At this hour, the Tim Horton's located on the first floor was packed, and I dutifully got in line behind my fellow drones. Coffee is an addiction of mine. There were about twenty people in front of me, and I hated it. Kind of wish I could skip to the front of the line, but these fucks wouldn't go for that.

"Hey, Morris," came a voice, and I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around, and forced myself to be calm. I hate being touched. I willed myself to be calm, and found myself looking into a vaguely familiar face. Tall, somewhat chubby young woman with long black hair, dark bronze skin and dark brown eyes. The beautifully ethnic face that can be either Arabian, Latin or even Indian, depending on who's looking. Where have I seen this gal before?

"Hey, Morris, I'm Roxana Suarez, remember, we had Criminal Law together last year," the young lady says, extending her hand for me to shake. I put a smile on and shake her hand. I'm nothing if not a gentleman. Is that a Dominican accent that I detect? I looked at the red and blue squares surrounding the white cross hanging on a lanyard around the lovely lady's neck, and realized that I was right.

Roxana looks good and smells even better. We exchange pleasantries, and the line moves slightly. All of a sudden, I'm in no hurry. What can I say? Roxana is something else. A couple of young white guys show up at the back of the line, flanked by a young black woman and a Chinese gal. The quartet looks at Roxana and I as we talk and smile, and disapproval rolls off of them in waves. Whatever.

"Tough class for sure, but I got through it and so did you," I say to a smiling Roxana, and she nods most eagerly. Such a ravishing creature. I had a semester-long class with her and didn't try to holler? Hmm, must have had my head in the clouds or something. My turn comes and instead of rushing forward to get my coffee and hash browns, I do something most unexpected. I smile at Roxana, and nod courteously.

"Why thank you," Roxana replies, and she skips in front of me, to get a coffee and a muffin. I absolutely can't stand the look and smell of muffins and to the best of my recollection, I have never eaten one. I do like the sight of Roxana's ass, which is looking rather spectacular in the black Yoga pants that she has on. Oh, and that red tank top suits her perfectly. I feel an all-too-familiar stirring down below, and it's a wonderful thing.

"Pleasure was all mine," I say to Roxana as I pay for my coffee, egg sandwich and hash browns with my BMO debit card, and then we head to the nearby elevator together. Roxana presses the number four button, and we ride the elevator to the Atrium. We walk through it, and people stare at Roxana and I as we walk together. Turns out this cutie is heading to the library, which is right up my alley since I'm going to watch my V.O.D. lecture online.

"Let's stay on the second floor," Roxana suggests, and I smile and nod. Alright, I prefer the third floor because it's the silent floor but today, I've actually got company. Roxana and I sit at the back by the windows. Roxana sips her coffee, and starts doing research for her World Religions paper. Me? I've got a thirty-page paper due on the Ethics of Capital Punishment. Yippee for me.

"The Abrahamic religions stem from the same region of the world, it's a shame there's conflict between us," I say to Roxana, trying to sound all deep and stuff. She just asked me a question about the relationship between Christians and Muslims in the Middle East. I'm a new Muslim and know very little about Middle-Eastern politics. I practice my Islamic faith in a very personal way. Yeah, I go to the mosque once in a while, and try to make more Muslim friends at Carleton. That's about it.

"If more Muslims were like you, the world would definitely be a better place," Roxana whispers, and she gently touches my hand. You remember I said I don't like to be touched, right? Well, Roxana's touch doesn't seem to bother me as much. I smile at her and she smiles at me, and then, like the supreme opportunist that I am, I decided to take advantage of the situation.

"We should discuss this sometimes, if that's okay with you," I say with a straight face, and take out my phone. I hope that Roxana gets the hint, and she does. Smiling, the lady dictates her digits to me, and I punch them into my old Blackberry. I wave at Roxana as she gets up and walks to the printer, and prints her documents. The lady winks at me before walking away for good, and once more, I am mesmerized by her derriere. Hot damn.

That night, once I got home from work, I texted Roxana, and we made plans for coffee. The following afternoon, we had coffee at a nice little spot near the Rideau Center downtown. Afterwards, Roxana and I went for a nice walk around town, and got to know each other better. Just as I suspected, the lovely gal from the Dominican Republic has a thing for me. Well, I'm quite happy to say I didn't disappoint her.

"Love the way you taste my dear," I said to a panting, sweaty Roxana as I looked up at her. We were in Roxana's bedroom, at her apartment in the By Ward Market, and things were going very well. The Dominican cutie lay in bed, stark naked, her voluptuous body glistening with sweat, her shapely legs spread. I was giving that hairy, moist pussy of hers a tongue bath, and Roxana was squealing and moaning in delight.

"Gracias, Papi, now let's do this," Roxana whispers urgently, and I grin as she gets on all fours, and I finally get a real good look at that big, heart-shaped ass of hers. I kiss Roxana's ass, and then finger her cunt from behind. I roll a condom on my dick, and rub it against Roxana's pussy lips. Without further ado, I slide my dick into Roxana's cunt, give her big ass a firm slap and begin fucking her. Male or female, I love a big ass and it doesn't matter to me who it's attached to. Real talk.

I absolutely love the female body, and Roxana definitely has a hot one. I delight in exploring it. I suck on her tits, kiss her ass, spank her ass, slam my dick in her pussy and lose myself in her arms. For a couple of passionate hours we go at it, and Roxana's profanity-laden screams amaze even me. We collapse on the carpeted floor of her bedroom, sweaty and smelling of our juices, and it's a wonderful thing.

"Always knew you were a freak, big man," Roxana says, and she playfully tugs on my chest hairs. I wince and nod. I look into Roxana's dark eyes and smile. I see passion in them, and more. I kiss her on the lips, and Roxana looks at me, and bites her lips. Did I do something wrong? Women can be so damn strange after having sex. Guys? They tend to take off right after sex, and as a bisexual man, that suits me just fine.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask Roxana as I gently stroke her long black hair. I'm quite simply a sucker for a woman with long hair. Actually, come to think of it, I like guys with long hair too. Must be masculine, though. Girly guys don't do it for me. Got nothing against them but they just don't light my fire. Roxana looks like she wants to say something. I pause and wait for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

"Morris, um, I think you're sexy and all kinds of cool, but I just got out of a relationship and want to keep things casual," Roxana says, and I keep my face carefully blank and tell her that I understand. I tell her that I just got out of something too. I don't tell Roxana that my ex is a man. I don't see a point. No, I am not a closet case. My parents know that I swing both ways. I just don't see the point of telling other people my business.

"Fine by me, sweetie, I hope to see you soon," I reply to Roxana, and I smile as I put my clothes back on. Roxana looks at me, a puzzled look on her lovely face. I wink at Roxana as I exit her place. It's ten o'clock. I walk through the By Ward Market, and its streets are full of people. This is Ottawa at night. The boring government town comes to life. I walk to the Rideau Shopping Center and ride the escalator. What a night, eh?

At this hour, the Mackenzie King Bridge is packed with people. Fortunately, there's a lot of buses running still. I hop on the 95 bus going to Barrhaven, and it's full of people. Young women and guys enjoying the nightlife. They're loud and obnoxious, and more than a few are drunk. I discretely check out cuties of both sexes. I don't want to partake of these delights. Already had my fun with Roxana. Tomorrow morning, I'm opening up the Telus Store, perks of being management. Need my sleep. Goodnight.