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A Strong Black Woman’s Confessions free porn video
Sometimes, I can’t believe some of the things I do. Life is funny that way. My name is Kristina LaCroix. Used to be Kristina Latreille but I changed it to LaCroix, my birth name. Long story. I’m a third-year student at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I Swim competitively for my school and I am quite good at it. I’m the only Black chick on the Carleton University Women’s Swim team and I’m also the best Swimmer. Imagine that! I won the gold medal in the National Inter-University Swimming Championships last year. And I call myself a Champion. I stand five feet and a half eleven inches tall and I’m athletically lean, with long Black hair which I keep neatly braided. I’m not skin and bones, because I’ve got curves where it counts. And my booty is round, full and firm, thank you very much. My skin is a deep, nearly luminescent brown. Like my idol, the Hollywood actress Gabrielle Union. People tell me I look more like a Supermodel than an Athlete. Well, I beg to differ.
For most of my life, competitive swimming was basically my life. I joined the Women’s Swim team at Saint Francis Academy, a private Catholic school in Calgary, when I was a High School freshman. And I have been in love with the sport of swimming since then. I soon distinguished myself as a swimmer. People seem surprised that a young Black woman can excel at the sport of competitive swimming at the University level. Whatever. Black folks can excel in anything we choose. I really wish people would stop being surprised when we succeed in traditionally White-dominated arenas, and I’m not just talking about sports. I can out-swim any of the White chicks from Colleges and Universities around Canada. And they know it. Now I’m more focused on personal stuff than anything else. The summer is here and I recently started working for Randy’s Print and Copy Services in downtown Ottawa. The owner, Randy Watson hired me as the office manager. It’s okay and the pay is good. Anything to take my mind off certain unsettling recent events.
Last week, my long time boyfriend Steve Chretien proposed to me. He did it with such pomp, too. He asked me to marry him while we were dining inside Chateau Henri, a Haitian restaurant in Orleans. It’s named after King Henri Christophe, the legendary Haitian hero who helped the revolutionary armies of Haiti defeat the French and establish the first Black Republic in the New World. We were having dinner when Steve took my hand in his and asked me to marry him. I was stunned by his words. And the love I saw in his eyes stilled my heart. Steve smiled and told me he loved me. Then he produced this sparkling diamond ring. I looked at Steve’s handsome face and I wanted to say yes more than anything. Everything inside Chateau Christophe watched us and waited for my response. I love Steve. He’s my everything. But I don’t think I’m ready to get married. I’m sorry.
Steve is crushed, and he isn’t talking to me right now. He went back to his folks house in Brampton, a suburb of Toronto. His parents, who used to refer to me as the daughter they never have, now hate my guts. I didn’t set out to cause any pain to anyone. I love Steve. He’s my soul mate. The first man I ever loved. I hate my own guts right now. I hate myself for hurting the man I love. Especially a picture-perfect Ebony God like Steve Chretien. A six-foot-three, Hershey-coloured stud with a lean, muscular body. A running back on the University of Ottawa Men’s Varsity Football team. One of the best football players in all of Canada, if not the world. So talented that many scouts from American Colleges and Universities are kicking themselves for not recruiting him for their schools. They often overlook Canadian athletes. It cost them big at the Vancouver Olympics. Will they ever learn?
Steve Chretien could have had any chick at the University of Ottawa or at Carleton University. Lots of women of all colours throw themselves at the Black football stud. Black women. Asian women. Hispanic women. Aboriginal women. White women. They all want a piece of him. He’s one of the campus demigods. Usually, guys like him don’t like me. I’m tall, blunt and tomboyish. And I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress. People assume I’m queer simply because I’m an athletic female. Well, I’m not gay. And I’m not bisexual. Don’t have anything against gays, lesbians and bisexuals but that’s simply not the way I get down. I like men. Men and only men. Sorry, ladies. I do not partake in the love that dares not speak its name. Being a hardcore tomboy forever made me awkward around guys, especially the ones I liked. I’ve always been the buddy and never the girlfriend. Story of my life until I met Steve. He’s the first and only man I’ve ever loved.
The first time I laid eyes upon Steve, I was speechless. He was that sexy. Like an ancient African God come to life. Step aside Denzel Washington, watch out Will Smith and move over Tyson Beckford! There’s a new Ebony stud muffin in town! Yeah, he was all that and then some. And out of all the girls at the local schools, he picked me. Me, the awkward tomboy, the shy jock and eternal social outcast. The towering, dark-skinned and big-booty Black chick who swims for her school. And this wonderful young man wanted me to be his bride. I want to be with him for the rest of my life. I want to be his wife. I want to have his offspring. But I’m just not ready. That’s why I told Steve that I loved him but I didn’t feel that I was ready for marriage just yet.
Now, I know what many of you are thinking. What’s wrong with me? A picture-perfect Football stud wants to marry me and I say no. It’s because I love him. I haven’t been completely honest with Steve. Or with myself. In the past I did many things I wasn’t particularly proud of. Steve and I come from two different worlds. His parents, Jean-Claude and Bernice Chretien moved to Canada from the Republic of Haiti shortly before his birth. His father works for Canada Post and his mother is a Registered Nurse at the Ottawa Hospital. He comes from a loving home. I’m an orphan. I was adopted by a Canadian family when I was much younger. Paul and Mary Latreille adopted me from Haiti and I lived with them in Ottawa. They’re a couple of French Canadians originally from Alberta, land of the most racist Canadians of all. I don’t know why they let random White folks adopt young Blacks. I fear for all those Haitian orphans that wealthy White couples are adopting after the 2010 Haiti Earthquake. They never bother checking to see if the adopters in question are some hardcore racists. If they had, my life would have been far different.
To say that Paul and Mary Latreille mistreated me would have been an understatement. They’re deeply racist and hate Black people, especially Haitians. They hate us Haitians for being proud, strong and dignified. We don’t bow. Not to European imperialism. Not to racism. Not to earthquakes. Living under the Latreille roof was pure hell. They kept me isolated from other Black people. They made me feel like I was less than nothing. As soon as I was old enough, I left. And I haven’t been back there since. I left Montreal and moved to Ottawa. I was offered an academic scholarship to the University of Ottawa but chose Carleton University because of its racial diversity. Lots of Africans, Asians and Arabs study at Carleton University. The University of Ottawa is lily-White and elitist. At Carleton University, I met lots of other Haitians. I never forgot how to speak Haitian Creole, in spite of the Latreille’s attempt to rob me of my cultural identity.
When I met Steve, I was just beginning to heal. I joined the Haitian Students Association and made friends with several Haitian girls. I hung out with my true peers and reconnected with my own people. I started to feel human again. Too long I felt like the most unwanted and unworthy person on the planet. I’ve never been loved. I’ve always been mistreated by those who claim to care about me. Steve grew up firmly aware of his identity as a young Black man of Haitian descent.
I didn’t. I envy him. He’s so sexy, confident and he is so full of life. I’m far from being any of these things. Yet he loved me. In his arms, I felt safe. When he kissed me, I felt alive. Steve is my light in the darkness.
I’ve got a lot of anger inside. Mostly due to the awful way the Latreille couple treated me. And I’ve never dealt with it. I never had a chance to. Recently, I picked up the newspaper and found out that a murder-suicide stunned the town of Calgary, Alberta. Real estate agent Paul Latreille shot his wife Mary and then himself. This, after thirty years of marriage. I’m not sure how I feel about the Latreille’s deaths. On one hand, they’re gone and I’m finally free. On the other hand, they’ll never publicly pay for the abuse they doled out to me. I wanted to take them to court and have them thrown in jail. Instead, they took each other out of this world. I am denied justice and I am denied vengeance. I am still angry. Sometimes it comes out at the worst possible moment. There was this annoying White chick named Karen in one of my classes freshman year at Carleton University. She found it really hilarious when I tried out for the women’s swim team. So I smacked the hell out of her. That’s what she gets for dipping into my business, as they say down South. See what I mean about my anger? It’s in me, always. And it comes out when I least expect it. I love Steve. I don’t want him to see the darkest part of me. I don’t want my dark side to come out and physically hurt the man that I love. I’d rather perish. The only way to protect Steve from me is to stay away from him. Even though I love him more than I love myself.
So here I am in my off-campus apartment in Alta Vista. Looking at pictures of Steve and me. They brought back so many memories. The two of us catching a movie together at the Silver City theatre in Gloucester. Skating together on the frozen pond near Hurdman Station. Jogging together inside the University of Ottawa Football Stadium. How wonderful I felt lying next to him in bed after a night of passionate lovemaking. His gentle hands caressing my face. Me sitting on his lap on the OC Transpo bus, bugging the hell out of some of the more conservative denizens of Orleans. Yeah, we’ve had some wonderful times together. Steve is the light of my life. He matters more to me than anything. And I’ve just thrown away the best thing in my life. How could I have been so dumb?
True love is worth fighting for. That’s what I told myself as I pondered how to undo what I’ve done. I sat in front of my computer and wrote a letter. I wanted Steve to understand exactly who I was and what I went through. I wanted him to know how much I loved him, and how I’d die before hurting him. I wanted him to understand the darkness I carried inside of me. All the anger I felt at being constantly belittled, humiliated and mistreated simply due to my skin color and national origin by the wealthy White couple which adopted me. I wanted him to know what he meant to me. As a young gal, I dreamed that a handsome Prince would come take me away from the evil people who kept me from others like me. And fate gave me a Prince. A handsome Black Prince who wanted me to be his Black Princess. I wanted Steve to know all that.
I made two copies of the letter, and sent one to him and one to his parents. I wanted them to know the truth too. Steve’s parents have always been so nice to me. I never told them that I was adopted by a bigoted White couple who plucked me from my homeland of Haiti. I have always been evasive when discussions turned to family issues. Yes, I think it’s only fair that Steve and his parents should know who and what I am. If they still want me in their family, I’ll happily join them. I’ll be Steve’s wife and the best life partner and daughter-in-law ever. If they don’t want anything to do with me, I’ll understand. I’m damaged goods, after all. With a faint glimmer of hope in my heart, I stamped the letters and dropped them inside the mail box. Now all I’ll have to do is wait. For my fate to be decided.
Jo
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