Call Me They

"Call me they," said the diminutive, tomboyish, short-haired and curvy Native American gal as she looked me up and down from behind her desk, dripping with attitude. Snorting, I looked at her like she had two heads and they were both fucked up. Ever since I moved to the City of Winnipeg, Manitoba, from my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts, I'd seen and experienced a lot of strange things but this one definitely took the cake. Does this weirdo have multiple personalities or something?

"Um, lady, why would I call you they? You're one person, as in singular," I replied, scratching my head, and the person sitting before me frowned, and then proceeded to tell me exactly what she thought of my comments. I took a deep breath, and tried to keep calm. I was fighting the urge to tell the little weirdo where to stuff it, but I'm on campus, and I believe in keeping the peace, to a certain extent. Short Stuff is starting to get on my nerves...

"Listen up, buddy, I reject your heteronormative gender norms, I refuse to conform to the patriarchal institution's designations for my personhood, I am non binary," Short Stuff said, and I nodded and shrugged, something I often do when faced with people's foolishness. Licking my lips, I took a look around the Student Center at the University of Manitoba. Unfortunately for me, Short Stuff is the only person who seems to be working around here...

"Look, I'll call you whatever you want to be called, can you please point me to the international student office?" I asked, and Short Stuff frowned, puzzled. Right as she/they seemed about to answer, someone else walked into the student center, a tall, chubby White dude with dreads. I hate those fake Rastafarians with a passion. Certain White people have the nerve to harass Black people at work and at school because they don't like our natural hair, and then they turn around and copy us. Go figure...

"Oh, why didn't you just say so? The international student office is downstairs, not far from the Tim Horton's," Short Stuff said, sounding very girly. I looked at her/they, and paused, and then nodded thankfully. As I grabbed my heavy backpack, I was aware of someone staring at me, and looked at the White dude with dreads, who hovered nearby, a weird expression on his face.

"Yo, that's a cool Afro, bro, I'm Duncan, I'm Canadian, say, what part of the continent of Africa are you from, homey?" Mr. Fake Rasta said, in a rather condescending tone, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though my blood were boiling. I looked at the bozo, and seriously considered throttling the hell out of him. A lot of White dudes in Canada get way too familiar with Black folks whom they don't even know. I don't like that. I respect people and demand respect in return. I was about to cuss the hell out of the bozo when, for some reason, Short Stuff decided to intervene.

"Duncan, seriously! You're way out of line, don't speak to this gentleman like that, you know better," Short Stuff said sharply, and I looked at her/they, and saw some real indignation on that kind of lovely face. The White dude, Duncan, looked at Short Stuff, and then bit his lip. Looking at me, he sighed and then bowed his head, and this was followed by the most fake-sounding apology I've ever heard in my entire damn life.

"I'm sorry Deanna, um, I mean, Dee, um, sir, I didn't mean to offend you," Duncan said, and he flashed me that fake smile that a lot of people in the great White north are fond of flashing to foreigners whom they don't like, and then offered me his hand to shake. I shook it, and Duncan smiled some more, apologized some more and then wished me a good day. I watched as he walked away, opened a door at the end of the hall and then disappeared from my view. I shook my head, amazed.

"Thanks, um, Deanna, is it? I'm Lawrence," I asked, as I looked at Short Stuff with newfound respect. The non-binary, female-bodied, tomboyish and attractive person seated behind the desk rose, and I took a good look at her/they. Clad in a Black leather vest over a dark red T-shirt featuring the cover of Ayn Rand's classic novel Atlas Shrugged, and loose-fitting Black jeans, she/they managed to look both stylish and professional.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Lawrence, call me Dee, sir, now, there's an elevator in the lobby that will take you straight to the international students office on the main floor of the university center building," Dee said in a crisp, cold and businesslike tone. There was a dismissive quality to the words and the tone of voice that I didn't like, but whatever. I nodded, thanked her/they again, and walked away, feeling like an ass. Seriously, I felt bad.

"Have a good day, and thank you," I said, and I walked to the elevator, still stunned by what just transpired in the past few minutes. As I said before, the name is Lawrence Jones, and my friends call me L.J. I'm originally from the City of Boston, Massachusetts. I was born there, to Jamaican immigrant parents. What brought a son of the East Coast to cold-ass Winnipeg, Manitoba? It's a long story, folks.

"You're dead to us," said my father, Lionel Jones, after my ex-boyfriend Lucien outed me to my family. I was in my senior year at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, and had the world on a string. I was a running back on an NCAA Division One football team that was taking the Mid-American Conference by storm. We'd beaten everyone from the University of Maine to Boston College, and I was part of those glory days.

As a big and tall, handsome young Black man playing Division One football, I was akin to a prince on the UMass-Amherst campus. I was dating a young woman named Nadia Monroe, a fine-looking, tall and stunning, fearless African-American sister originally from Hartford, Connecticut. Nadia is one of those tall, curvy, sassy and lively sisters with mahogany skin who ooze sensuality and attitude out of every pore. A civil engineering student at UMass-Amherst, Nadia was in a popular sorority and practically ran the campus. I simply couldn't get enough of her...

"You are really something, young blood," Nadia said to me, as we made love the night my team and I, the UMass-Amherst Minutemen football team, beat our rivals and fellow New Englanders, the Boston College Eagles football team. Nadia and I lay in bed, having a celebration of our very own. I looked at the vision of ebony beauty who lay in my arms, and grinned. I kissed Nadia's lips and then licked her breasts, while my hand slipped between her thighs. Nadia sighed happily as I began fingering her sweet pussy, and soon she began moaning and crying out my name...

"Babe, just wait and see," I paused to say to a moaning Nadia, and I spread her thighs and began eating her pussy. Nadia arched her back and shuddered violently as I buried my face between her legs and ate her out. Afterwards, she showed me what she was working with by grabbing my dick and sucking on it like a damn lollipop. Nadia engulfed my dick into her mouth and sucked me greedily. Soon, I was harder than a rock and ready to fuck...

"Beat that pussy up," Nadia said to me, laughing, as I put her on all fours and caressed her thick ass. I bent down and kissed her butt, and then rolled a condom on my dick. With a swift thrust I entered her, and Nadia began grinding her ass against my groin, driving me deeper inside of her. I held her tightly by those wide hips of hers and thrust into her. Hard and fast I fucked her, and Nadia's passionate screams soon mingled with my own.

As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, I had life on a string and even entertained thoughts of declaring for the NFL Draft. My numbers were pretty good, and I had a growing fan base on YouTube and Facebook. I cared deeply for Nadia Monroe and even introduced her to my family. Everything was going well until Nadia graduated and took a job with some company in Dallas, Texas. I was alone and heartbroken. And then Lucien Etienne happened...

I met Lucien Etienne, a tall, slim, well-dressed and handsome, dark-skinned young Haitian guy in my Intro to Criminal Justice class during my sophomore year at UMass-Amherst. When our eyes met, it was like we were the only people in the crowded classroom. As luck would have it, Lucien and I sat near each other. We became friends, and more. Lucien and I became lovers, and kept things quiet, for obvious reasons. Lucien knew that I dated women and didn't seem to care.

"You and I are forever," Lucien said to me, after we made love for the first time. We were in his dorm, away from prying eyes. I looked at Lucien, who looked gorgeous in his neon blue boxers. For the past few hours he'd worn me out with hot, passionate sex. I'd hooked up with both women and men before, but let's just say that Lucien taught me a thing or two. And I was most thankful for it.

"Amen to that," I said to Lucien as I drew him in my arms, and he rolled on top of me. We kissed passionately and resumed making love. Lucien kissed me and licked me from my head to my toes. I shuddered with pleasure as he sucked my dick and fingered my ass. Afterwards, he put me on my back, rolled a condom on his big ole dick and entered me after lubricating me. I groaned in pain and pleasure as Lucien pushed his dick into my ass and began fucking me...

"Give me that sweet ass, Mr. Football Stud," Lucien said, smiling and looking into my eyes as he fucked me. I stroked my dick and sighed happily as Lucien's dick invaded my ass. That night, Lucien showed me many new pathways to pleasure, and I became addicted to him. Lucien knows the male body and how to please it, believe me. We had some glorious years together. Until the end came. I was close to graduating, and wanted to have an NFL career. Lucien wanted me to move in with him, and I refused. That's when he frigging flipped out, swearing revenge. I thought he was kidding, but I was wrong...

"Lucien sent me the pictures of you two together, you're a faggot, son, you're dead to me," my father said, and he stood at my room door, and tossed the pictures at me. I looked at him, stunned. Shaking his head, my father stormed out. Just like that, my world was over. Lucien had done some irreparable damage to my life and career. He sent pictures and recordings of our, ahem, sessions, to my football coach, my teammates, the UMass-Amherst department of athletics, and even the NFL scouts. I was toast.

In the summer of 2016, I graduated from UMass-Amherst with my bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice, but I never made it to the NFL. Believe me, long before Michael Sam became the first openly gay Black man to play for an NFL team ( and had a super short career as a result ) I knew that the NFL was no place for a gay man or a bisexual man to be open with his sexuality. Lucien's revenge had done its work. All of my years of being an outstanding college football player meant nothing. No team would touch me. My NFL career was over before it even began...

A virulent homophobia runs rampant in the Jamaican community, and believe me, it's nothing new. My own family disowned me, and I lost my church friends as well. All of a sudden, I found myself alone and ostracized in the State of Massachusetts. It was definitely time to go. My parents tossed me out so I needed to get a job and my own place, in order to survive. I worked as a security guard for a few months and got myself a one-bedroom spot. How the mighty has fallen...

A few months later, I heard from my aunt Jacqueline Jones, my father's estranged and openly gay sister, who lives in the City of Winnipeg, Canada, with her partner Josephine. They heard about my struggles and invited me to come over. I went to visit my long-lost aunt Jacqueline in Winnipeg, and fell in love with the province of Manitoba. That's why I took the LSAT and applied to the University of Manitoba School of Law. I got in, and thus I began my new life in the City of Winnipeg...

"Canada is going to rock your socks, nephew, you'll see what I mean, in time," Aunt Jacqueline said to me, after I ecstatically showed her the acceptance letter from the University of Manitoba Law School. I looked at the six-foot-tall, dark-skinned, short-haired, fifty-something Jamaican-Canadian lady who accepted me as I am, a young bisexual Black man, and gave her a fierce hug. I was moved to tears, let me tell you. No shame in admitting that, I guess...

"Happy for you, young man," said Aunt Jacqueline's partner, a sturdy ex-cop named Josephine Baxter, as she looked on and smiled. Overjoyed, I went and gave Josephine a hug as well, and the old White lady hugged me back. Seriously, these two showed me nothing but love. My aunt Jacqueline told me how proud she was of me, and I just about melted. Those were the words I should have heard from my father, but whatever.

"Thank you for everything, ladies," I said, overcome with emotion. Truth be told, these two queer old ladies showed me more love and acceptance than my own parents, and I owe them a great deal. While waiting for my work permit and study permit from the Canadian government, Aunt Jacqueline and her partner Josephine let me stay rent-free at their townhouse in Winnipeg. All I had to do was be respectful, clean up after myself and help out around the house...

When September came, while the United States of America was gearing for a showdown between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump for the U.S. Presidency, I was settling into my new life in the City of Winnipeg, Manitoba. I got a job working as a loss prevention officer for the local Walmart store, a nice gig that pays sixteen bucks an hour. I found myself a one-bedroom apartment on the south side of Winnipeg, and settled into my new digs. When school opened at the University of Manitoba, I was ready for a bold new beginning...

All those thoughts raced through my head as I made my way to the international student center. When I applied to the University of Manitoba School of Law, they required my LSAT scores, along with my academic record and transcripts from UMass-Amherst, and a copy of my U.S. passport. I thought this was it, but naturally they needed more from me. I had a copy of my expensive study permit, which I had to buy from CIC, and was on my way to the international student center and got lost. That's how I ended up in the student center office, and met Short Stuff A.K.A Dee.

"Thank you for giving us this, I'll make a copy and send you on your way," said the young Asian woman sitting at the desk, at the international students office. I nodded and smiled, and she made a copy which she then dropped off at the mail box of the director. I thanked her and then walked out, and as I headed on my way, I saw a bunch of people standing in line at Tim Horton's. One of them caught my attention...

"Oh my," I said to myself, smiling as I saw a short but thick young woman at the back of the line. Pulling out her wallet, she took some money out and was counting it when some of it fell. I watched, grinning from ear to ear, as she bent down to pick up her fallen coins, and I got a good look at that thick ass. Shorty's got an ass on her, I thought lustfully. Folks, I'm a bisexual brother who loves a nice ass, and I don't care if it's attached to a female or a man. Get used to it.

Feeling lustfully inspired, and more than a bit curious, I came closer, and lined up behind the owner of said booty. Folks, whether I'm walking around the mall and see a big-booty gal, or in the men's locker room and see a dude with a nice bum, I like to check out nice asses. Deal with it. For some reason, the lady turned around, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw who it was. It was Short Stuff, I mean, Deanna, I mean Dee. The hot Native chick who insists on being called "they" instead of "she" or "her." What was she/they doing here?

"You again," Dee said, raising they/her eyebrows quizzically, and I smiled nervously, wondering if she/they had seen me checking out that ass. I looked at the short, non-binary cutie, and raised my hands in the air in mock surrender. I sensed that this situation required careful handling. This person stuck up for me earlier when dealing with the wannabe Rasta White dude, and I felt that I owed her/them an apology, of sorts, for my insensitive words...

I'm new to Canada and it seems that around here, people are serious about identity politics. I'm a bisexual Black man born and raised in Massachusetts, the place where same-sex marriage was first legalized in the United States, but I know next to nada about non-binary people and transgender people. Well, other than Caitlyn Jenner from the Kardashians cabal, of course...

"Hello, um, Dee, I wanted to say that I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to offend you, I didn't like the fake Rasta's condescending words, and you defended me even though I offended you," I said, looking into Dee's brown eyes, and I hoped that I came off as sincere. The Native tomboy/non-binary person/cutie with a nice ass licked her/their lips and smiled, and I realized that she/they reminded me of Hollywood actress Demi Moore in the movie G.I. Jane, only more...Native.

"Apology accepted," Dee said, and then she/they extended a sleek hand, which I shook. I smiled and nodded, and then the line at Tim Horton's continued to move. Dee got a coffee and an egg sandwich, and I did the same. Afterwards, I watched as she/they went to sit at a nearby table, and did the same. I sat about two meters from her, and grabbed a discarded newspaper. I sipped my coffee, glanced at the paper without real interest, and pretended not to stare at this beautiful, intriguing person...

"Lawrence, care to join me?" Dee asked, and she/they flashed me that smile that Canadians give you when they're trying to be polite. I'm a Bostonian and an improper Bostonian at that. I've got no shame. And I don't really care about anyone's feelings. I smiled back and took her/them up on that offer. Looks like I've got you right where I want you, cutie, now I'm going to reel you in, I thought as I sat opposite Dee.

"So, where are you from?" Dee asked me as she/they sipped some coffee, and I sipped mine, and smiled. I was quite thankful to have been given an opening. I looked at Dee, whose backpack was full of rainbow buttons, and political buttons stating things like "no means no" and "divest now" along with "transgender lives matter" and other things that a lot of liberal-minded young people at today's colleges and universities use as slogans and mantras.

Me? I'm past all of that. Sure, I'm a bisexual man but I never saw the point of wearing rainbow stuff, acting queer, or go around telling everyone whom I sleep with. As far as I'm concerned, that's, ahem, white people shit. No offense. There's a reason why a lot of gay and bisexual Black men avoid mainstream LGBT places. First, a lot of gay white people are just as racist as straight white people. Oh, and they don't like our fondness for 'Black' stuff, so, there...

Going into analytical mode, I looked at Dee and tried to read her/they. Let's see, what do we have here? A Native lady, and a good-looking one at that, probably from one of the many tribes or bands that make up the Native or First Nations population of Manitoba. Definitely can be classified as other due to the politics, and the personal reasons for said politics. Might be gay or bisexual due to the rainbow buttons and the insistence of non-binary identifiers. Interesting. How do I proceed?

"I'm from Boston, I'm new to Manitoba and so far, I like it, I'm learning a lot," I said with a smile, and Dee's eyes widened in surprise. She/they looked at me as though I were a unicorn, and I took that as a good sign. I like to surprise people. I'm never what they expect. Quite often, that's worked to my advantage. In North America, a Black man has to be more than he seems and keep both friends and enemies guessing otherwise he's toast. You've got to be a social chameleon. Just look at former U.S. President Obama. The man knows what I'm talking about...