From Lebanon With Love U Of T

Why is it that the women with the biggest and most beautiful butts tend to have the most attitude? Seriously, one has to wonder. The first time I spotted Mira Nazeem I went to the graduate student lounge to make a copy of a document and fax it to the social services department. I had never been to the graduate lounge, being a third-year undergrad and all. To be honest, I didn't even know the place existed until someone from the library told me they had a fax machine.

I went into the lounge with my papers, and was greeted by a vision of beauty sitting behind the counter. This tall, curvy gal with long, curly black hair prematurely streaked with gray and gorgeous bronze skin got up and took the papers from me, along with the fax number I was sending them to. It'll just be a minute, she said, with an accent I couldn't trace. Hmmm. Cute lady with an accent and some dangerous curves. What's not to like?

When the lady turned around, I had to smile. Like every black man who's ever lived, I've got a thing for a cute, big butt. And this lady definitely had one of the best I'd seen at the University of Toronto. She disappeared in another room, and I waited a few minutes. Soon she was back, with the fax confirmation. It had trouble getting in but we made it work, she said evenly. Double entendre much? Never one to resist dropping a pun, no matter how creative or how lame, I smiled and licked my lips. Always fun getting it in, I said, knowing how what I just said could be interpreted in many different ways, and not caring one bit.

The lady fixed me with an icy stare, her dark brown eyes sparkling with barely contained anger. That'll be two dollars for the transaction sir, she said, polite but harsh at the same time. I handed her a toonie, then wished her a good day. No reply from her as I made my way to the elevator. Bummer, I thought. What's up with some of them university women being unable to take a damn joke? College and university campuses across North America have become too politicized.

Oh, snap. I forgot to mention some key details. My name is Samuel Dorval, and I was born in the City of Montreal, Quebec, to a French Canadian mother and Haitian immigrant father. After spending my whole life in Montreal, I surprised my friends and family by moving to the City of Toronto, Ontario, for higher education. I had a partial academic scholarship to the University of Toronto, so I figured, why not? I enrolled in the Criminal Justice program because I want to be a cop someday. Either that or a lawyer. I haven't decided yet. So, I was having fun in Toronto, but most of it off-campus. I don't shit where I eat, and typically, it's not a good idea to get involved with chicks too close to you.

I needed an internship, according to my academic adviser and I figured the social services department of Toronto might do the trick. If that doesn't work, I'll try Toronto City Hall or the Department of Corrections. I went back to the campus library and did my Criminal Law homework, then, upon realizing I was in a quiet corner of the library, with no one around me, I checked out my favorite porn site. It's called Beurette Tour, and it features the most outrageous type of porn I've ever seen.

Hot chicks wearing Hijabs ( and nothing else ) while engaging in sexual activity with horny guys, and other hot naked chicks wearing hijabs. The hottest video on the site featured two light-skinned black chicks frolicking in the nude, licking each other's pussies and taking turns fucking each other with a strap-on dildo. I liked that video so much that I got a boner, right there on the second floor of the University of Toronto library. Not a single fuck was given that day, what can I say?

The next time I ran into the aloof big-booty chick from the graduate student lounge was at the food court. It was Saturday and I'd come to campus to get some homework done. After countless hours in the library, I was famished, so I went to the food court. It was right before closing time, and I was famished. I went to the chicken and fries place ( don't judge me ) and just as I was about to tell the skinny black guy behind the counter what I wanted, someone sidled right in front of me, and asked for the last damn chicken wings...and most of the fries.

Yeah, man. I was there and I couldn't believe that shit. Can you guess who that was? None other than the tall, big-booty chick from the graduate student lounge. What the fuck? I stared at that bitch like she had two heads. What in hell did she think she was doing? Cutie with a big ass or not, nobody skips in front of me, lady! I cleared my throat loudly. The chick turned around, smiled and told me she was looking forward to eating a delicious lunch. We're closing now please make your way to the front, the dude behind the counter told us.

Grunting with frustration, I grabbed a cold sandwich and a chocolate milk and walked to the front, paid for it, and left. That chick seriously pissed me off, man. Who the fuck was she? I sat on a bench outside, and ate. As I got back into the building, I took the elevator, and made my way back to the library. I couldn't believe the nerve on that woman. Finally, I gathered my belongings and left campus. Could this day get any worse?

I boarded the bus leaving campus, showed my student pass to the tubby bozo driving it, and took out my Blackberry. I hadn't checked my messages in ages. I had a text from my buddy Abdirashid, a Somali dude from my Sociology 101 class, and he told me he had to cancel our Saturday squash sessions. Translation? Abdi is stepping out with Amal again. Ever since he's met the big-booty light-skinned honey from Eritrea, Abdi has been hard to reach. My dude is pussy whipped. And Muslim guys are always fronting with their fake machismo. Bunch of pussies if you ask me.

So, I was in the middle of sending Abdi a scathing reply when someone sat next to me. No big deal, I guess. Until I realized who it was. It's you, I said, my heart skipping a beat as the same chick from the food court sat next to me, a smirk on her pretty face. Hello again, she said confidently. I shook my head. Seriously, if she wasn't a female I would have decked her. You got some nerve lady, I said, smiling thought I wasn't the least bit amused. Shrugging, she flashed me a fearless smile. Just having a little fun Samuel, she said coyly.

I stared at her, my annoyance turning into concern laced with dread. How do you know my name lady? I said, glaring at her. I sent your faxes remember? she said, with another shrug. Well at least that's not creepy or anything, I said, shaking my head. Sheesh don't freak out, she laughed, as I began to wonder if I should be sitting next to this broad. She's cute and all, beautiful in fact, but I know danger comes in many forms. You don't last long in crime-infested Montreal without figuring that out.

My name is Mira Nazeem, she said, extending a well-manicured hand. Hesitantly I shook her hand. Cool I'm Samuel Dorval as you already know, I said, smiling nervously. Mira shook her head. Not a lot of fun when someone flips the script on you mister cocky? she said, grinning. I stared at her blankly. What are you talking about? I said earnestly. This was getting a bit too odd for me, man. Who the fuck is this broad and what does she want with me? I bit my lip. You waltzed into my place of work like you owned the place and thought I'd forget it, Mira said, rolling her eyes.

Yo lady I was just flirting it's my usual behavior and nothing serious, I said, smiling as I held my hands up. Mira licked those full, exquisite lips of hers. Next time show a little more class, she said, then got up abruptly. You got me all wrong, I replied, but she was already on her way off the bus. I was about to yell out something really clever as Mira exited, but I kind of lost my train of thought when I saw that thick, round ass of hers swinging from side to side in her blue jeans like a pendulum of temptation. Hot damn.

I went back to my apartment that night feeling weird, man. Who the fuck was this broad? I decided to look her up on Facebook, and much to my amazement, we had a friend in common. The mutual link being Joseph Abdullah, a Lebanese guy from one of my classes. I decided to send little miss weirdo a message. You're weird but I like your style Miss Nazeem, I wrote, followed by a friend request. I browsed through her profile and I must say, I kind of liked what I saw. For a chick from the Arab world, Mira sure has a lot of revealing pics on her Facebook. I mean, I was tickled pink when I saw one of her on the beach somewhere, wearing a black bra and matching thong, and standing next to a Hindu-looking guy. A Tamil, I think. So Mira likes dark-skinned men, eh? Sounds promising. Weird as she was, I found myself enticed. Hey, might be worth a shot, right?

The next morning, as I checked my Facebook messages, and guess who not only accepted my friend request but wrote something snarky on my wall? Mira Nazeem, in the flesh. It takes a weirdo to know a weirdo Mister Dorval so I'm glad we met, that's what she wrote. Word for word. I smiled and clicked on the like button. Immediately I began creeping through her profile because, well, that's what you do when you first become online friends with someone. Mira had a ton of pictures, which surprises me because, well, in my experience with middle-eastern women they're quite conservative.

I was still ogling Mira's profile when I got another message from her. Let's grab breakfast at Hart House, she wrote, and I hastily replied in the affirmative. Around eleven that morning I went to one of Toronto's gallery grill and I must say, the lady was a vision of beauty. Clad in a black T-shirt featuring legendary Canadian artist Julie Nesrallah, black leather pants and black boots. I felt overdressed in a red silk shirt, black silk pants and dark gray silk tie. Hello Miss Nazeem, I said with a grin, as I pulled a chair for her.

Good to see you again Mister Dorval, Mira said coyly, and sat across from me. We ordered an omelette with bacon strips, and some orange juice. My treat, I said, and Mira shook her head. After what I did to you in the food court the other day I owe you, she smiled. I gritted my teeth. Touché lady, I conceded, and swallowed a spoonful of egg. Tell me more about Mira Nazeem, I said, staring into those dark eyes of hers.

Sounds fair enough, Mira said, licking her lips after sipping some juice. I found that gesture distracting. Seriously, it sent a thrill down my pants. I was born in Zahle and raised in Beirut, Mira began, a faraway look creeping into her lovely face. I listened attentively as Mira told me about her childhood in Lebanon, the conflict between Christians and Muslims which erupted into open war across the entire country, and her family fleeing first to Turkey, then England, where they spent the next two decades.

We've been refugees for so long no place can ever feel like home, Mira said, a haunted look upon her face. I stared at her and took a deep breath, unsure what to say. The whole thing was getting too deep for me. I am so sorry, I said, biting my lips nervously. Mira kept talking, as if in a trance. Clearly the gal was having an emotional episode. Unsure what to do, I reached for her hand. Are you okay? I asked, squeezing it gently. Mira's eyes flashed with anger, and she bared her teeth. Take your hand off me, she snarled.

At this hour, the restaurant wasn't crowded but there were still people in it. A few of the patrons looked our way. I tried to smile as if everything was alright, as if I wasn't having breakfast with a beautiful but troubled woman. Just making sure you're okay, I said, hesitating. Damn, why are all the hot chicks always bipolar or just plain nuts? Mira looked at me, and sniffed. I'm the one who should be apologizing, she said, and gently laid her hand on mine. I just get a bit emotional when talking about my family's past, she said.

It's no bother at all, I said evenly, looking at Mira cautiously. Kind of surprised me that I unloaded on you like that, she said. I shrugged, doing my best to appear unfazed, a gentleman to the end. I smiled at her. You are one complicated woman, I said at last, swallowing the last strip of bacon. Mira flashed me that fearless smile I would come to know so well. Would you have me any other way? Mira laughed. I shook my head. Alright, she had me there.

Pulling her wallet out of her purse, Mira produced a bright red Scotia Bank debit card. My treat Mister Dorval, she said with a grin. I hesitated. Being raised in Montreal by a Haitian father with old-school sensibilities and a French Canadian mother made me see the world a certain way. I was raised to be respectful and chivalrous, even though I'm a bit of a prick by my own admittance. Still, I'm not in the business of letting women pay for meals...when they're out with me. Alright but let's do movies or something this week, I countered, looking into Mira's eyes. Sounds good to me, Mira replied, all smiles as she settled our twenty-two-dollar meal, and gave the waiter a five-dollar tip.

We left the restaurant together, and went back to campus. I didn't have class till one o'clock so I walked Mira to hers. I'm a graduate research assistant in the anthropology department, she told me, and I must say I was impressed. Sounded like a fascinating field to me. Honestly, I don't know much about anthropology beyond traveling to exotic places and looking at pyramids, I laughed. Mira laughed and elbowed me in the ribs none too gently. That's archeology not anthropology, she laughed. Got me there, I said, and we walked to the Anthropology Building on Russell Street.

I have arrived at my destination, Mira said, as we stood in front of the old brownstone building. Thanks for breakfast it's been fun, I said, and extended my hand for her to shake. Mira grinned, and batted my hand away, a gesture which surprised me. Impulsively she threw her arms around me and hugged me. I hugged her back awkwardly. See you soon Samuel, Mira laughed, and ran up the building steps, giggling in a way that was partly sweet, partly insane.

I stood there and scratched my head. What a woman! I had to smile. This chick definitely keeps me on my toes. My spider sense, as my hero Spiderman would say, was tingling. This broad is nuts, that's for damn sure. And since when has that ever kept me away from a chick with a cute face and a big butt? Thus I began my dogged pursuit of one Mira Nazeem, international student from Berkshire, England, studying at the University of Toronto.

The following week, I took Mira to the Scotia Bank Theatre, and we watched Prisoners, starring Hugh Jackman and that guy from the gay cowboy movie, Jake something or other. The movie was fun, though I found African-American actor Terrence Howard disappointingly tame as a father whose daughter got kidnapped by some creeps, whom Hugh Jackman is breaking all the rules to bring down. Terrence Howard and Hugh Jackman both had their daughters kidnapped and they went looking for them but Terrence kind of disappeared from the movie and it became all about Jackman and that Jake guy. Hollywood's way of excluding the black man, as usual. You're there but you're really not there.

I mentioned this to Mira, and I must say, I was surprised by her response. As a biracial man in Canada, I have a different experience than most people when it comes to race and racism. My father is black and my mother is white. I remember the angry looks we'd get from white men, and some black women, when we were out as a family. I've been told that I'm not black enough by Haitian youths in Montreal-Nord when I tried to play soccer with them. And I also got called racial slurs by bigoted young white guys at the private school I attended near Laval. Guess what I did in both instances? I said a big fuck you to the haters.

So, yeah, I'm a bit sensitive when it comes to certain things. Hollywood has a way of excluding us minorities and we let them get away with their bullshit too often, Mira said. I looked at her, and smiled. We'd been talking on the phone and online for weeks now, and this was our first outing together, I'm not counting those times we grabbed a bite together at school. I've hung out with and dated women of all shades. I've found that it's a good idea to get to know the racial views of a woman you're with early on, a good way to spare oneself some pain, when you happen to be a son of two worlds...such as I.

You can imagine how delighted I was to hear a woman such as Mira Nazeem, of Lebanese Christian descent but able to pass for Italian or Greek, refer to minorities by terms such as "us" and "we". No we mustn't let them get away with it at all, I said, and smiled at Mira. Good answer pretty lady, I thought contentedly. After the movie, I took her to the Hong Shing Chinese restaurant. We had a delicious meal of shrimp-fried rice with orange chicken and egg rolls, which we washed down with Pepsis. We had a really good time discussing the movie, along with Toronto's infamous Mayor Rob Ford, among other things.

Mira insisted on covering our meal, since I'd paid for the movie tickets. You must stop keeping score milady, I said in a mock British accent. Where's the fun in that? Mika laughed. We left the restaurant together, and I called her a cab. This time I hugged Mira. I was growing comfortable with her hands-on approach to, well, almost everything. As I hugged her, feeling her body so close to mine, well, it was...a most pleasant feeling. And her Lilac-inspired perfume was wonderfully intoxicating. Thanks for a wonderful outing, Mira said, gently kissing me on the lips. I kissed her back. A five-second peck, nothing like what you see in the movies nowadays. And yet, it was as deep and as meaningful as any first kiss.

Goodnight pretty lady, I grinned, squeezing Mira's hand gently before holding the cab door for her. I'm a handful just so you know, she laughed. I smiled and nodded. I stood there, on the curb, and watched her cab drive away. Then I walked my ass home. I don't live far, about eight or nine blocks. I live near Grange Park, within walking distance of the Art Gallery of Ontario. Pricy neighborhood, to say the least, but my landlady is sweet, she cut me a deal. As long as I help her with stuff like maintaining the townhouse ( I'm quite the handyman ) rent is only four hundred a month for me. In exchange, I have a two-bedroom spot to myself in one of the classiest parts of town. Not bad, eh?

As I walked the dark streets of Toronto on that October evening, my Blackberry buzzed. Who could be texting me? You've got sweet lips, a text from Mira read. I smiled, and, corny as it seems, I kissed the screen. Right back at you princess don't forget to dream of me tonight, I wrote back. That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about my life, and the weird, and often surprisingly fun twists it often takes. I'm in my third year in the Criminal Justice program at the University of Toronto. Not where I thought I'd be if you'd asked me a while ago, for I couldn't envision leaving my beloved Montreal, but whatever. Life happens. And I'm falling in love with T.O. and catching feelings for a certain gorgeous, quirky and decidedly bipolar, tall Lebanese gal. What can I say? I love my life.