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Turkish Delight In Texas

Low tolerance for bullshit, that's something I most definitely feel every day of the week. There's an epidemic of stupidity out here in the Southwestern United States, and I wonder how long it's going to be before I lose it and smack a damn fool. I'm already in anger management over kicking some bitch's ass at Wal-Mart last month, so I don't need any more trouble with the authorities.

My name is Bikem ( pronounced with a Bee sound ) Demirel and I was born in the City of Austin, Texas, to a Turkish Muslim immigrant father, Ismail Demirel, and a Mexican-born American mother, Isabel Gutierrez. My parents split when I was young, mainly because my Roman Catholic mother and my Sunni Muslim Turk of a father argued a lot over religious and cultural differences. Me? I'm a proud atheist. I think religion is a load of complete and utter bullshit.

I am the daughter of two worlds, of the Republic of Turkey, one of the oldest civilizations, and of Mexico, a beautiful land home to a fiercely proud and at times embattled people. I am as American as former U.S. President George W. Bush, the State of Texas worst export, but people keep on asking me where I come from, and it irks the hell out of me. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, curvy, with dark bronze skin, long black hair and light brown eyes.

"Go back to your country," said the plump white chick at the checkout counter at Walgreens, all because I refused to back down when some unruly trucker tried to skip in front of me in line. I stood there, hands on my hips, and took a deep breath, then managed to resist the urge to smack the racist old bitch across the face.

"Bitch, I was born in this country, so watch your mouth!" I replied, as haughtily as I could, and then I grabbed my would-be purchase, a pack of M & M's and tossed them at the old bitch's head, missing it by a few inches. As onlookers gawked on, I walked out of the store, smirking like the she-devil that quite a few people have accused me of being.

I checked my Blackberry, and sighed deeply. It was one o'clock and I had class at one thirty. I'm in the criminal justice program at Austin Community College, and want to be either a cop or a corrections officer someday. My father works for the Texas Rangers, the statewide police force of Texas, and I'm lucky that he's used his contacts to keep me out of prison given my volatile temper and frequent clashes with authority figures.

"Kiz, you need to be more careful out there, one day I won't be around to protect," my father said to me as we sat inside Kebabalicious, a nice Turkish restaurant located on Congress Avenue near downtown Austin. I looked at my Pops, who sat across from me, clad in a red silk shirt, black silk pants and burgundy tie. Oh, and he had on his customary black cowboy bat. The same one I gave Pops a few days before my high school graduation, on his fiftieth birthday.

"Pops, I can handle myself just fine, you taught me how to fight, remember?" I said, and Pops smiled and shook his head. I ate my Pitav bread, and tasty strips of goat meat before washing it all down with a can of Pepsi. Then I burped loudly, and winked my Pops, who rolled his eyes and pretended to be shocked. I am who I am, and don't compromise for anyone.

"I created a monster," Pops said, and I laughed and after a moment, he joined me. We finished our meals, and then I insisted on paying for our food, even though my Pops wasn't happy about it. He's from the old school and doesn't like to let ladies pay for anything. I'm as far from a lady as can be, and still be female, take my word for it. Doesn't matter to my Pops, though.

Ismail Demirel, born in the City of Erzurum, eastern Turkey, and the first Muslim American to rise to the rank of Captain of a police force in the Midwest, that's my father. He's set in his ways, but I love him for it. I love my Pops, and I am more like him than either of us is prepared to admit. I get my doggedness from him, and my fiery temper with my mother.

"I've got this, Pops," I said, kissing my father on the forehead before I went over to the front of the restaurant, and paid for our meals. I took my First State Central Bank of Texas credit card, and paid for our orders, which came out to thirty six dollars. I left five dollars as tip, and then Pops and I skedaddled. Pops returned home to his new lady love, a skank named Miranda.

Sorry, I'm sure that Miranda, a plump, blonde-haired and green-eyed slut who works at a grocery store near my Pops house is a nice lady, but I can't stand the woman. This broad has redneck written all over her, and even makes Muslim jokes. Now, I'm not a Muslim but I am a Muslim man's daughter. It irks me when people disrespect my father's religion. Pops knows about Miranda's views and puts up with her. What could he possibly see in her? Beats the hell out of me. I don't think I want to know what could compel a man as intelligent and as handsome as my Pops to lower himself to the point of dating a neighborhood skank.

Still, I can't judge my Pops relationship choices. My mother's choices are downright scandalous. Seriously, I love my momma, she gave me life, but her penchant for dating guys even younger than me embarrasses the hell out of me. These days, mommy dearest is dating Pedro, this tall Latino dude who used to be the cornerback for Stephen F. Austin High School when I went there.

I was a total tomboy back then, and the first female to join the high school football team. Pedro the macho cornerback of the high school team ( and self-style campus ladies man ) hit on me and I slapped him for being too insistent when I rejected his ass. Now the dude is dating my mother. Small wonder I've got anger issues, eh?

I hurried to my sociology of deviance course at Austin Community College. It was taught by Pat, an ex-cop, and one of my favorite professors. Due to my job as a mechanic ( yes, female mechanics do exist ) I've had to skip class a few times and Pat is always flexible with me because he knows I'm serious about the work. I was about five minutes late, and found someone sitting in my usual spot.

"Dude, you're in my spot," I said to the tall, well-dressed young Black man who sat in my favorite chair. The guy looked at me, smirked, and playfully smacked my ass. I grinned, and happily sat on the seat next to him. Only one man can get away with treating me like that, and it's my boyfriend Bilal Winston, the Chicago-born African-American stud who stole my heart.

"As salam alaikum, Sister Bee," Bilal said, putting his arm around my shoulder and planting a kiss on my lips. I kissed Bilal back passionately, not caring that we were in the middle of class. Lucky for us, Professor Pat was trying to work the projector, so he had his back turned. I looked into Bilal's soulful brown eyes and smiled. This brother always makes me feel naughty and I can't get enough of him.

I met Bilal last year, at a meeting of the Interfaith Club at Austin Community College. Jews, Christians and Muslims, having dialogue and discussing religion, politics and community, in a peaceful manner. That's the idea of the Interfaith Club. Bilal is from the Nation of Islam, his parents were once devout supporters of Malcolm X, and the brother is outspoken in his criticism of law enforcement. I clashed with Bilal because, well, I'm a cop's daughter even though I've had clashes with the system myself. We argued a lot...and fell in love.

Typically, I don't get along with the opposite sex, nor do I get along with my own gender either. I'm too much of a tomboy for most broads, and they find me weird. When you're a grown woman, being tomboyish isn't cute anymore, it makes guys hesitant to speak to you and it makes queer women hit on you. I've got nothing against gays and lesbians, but I am one hundred percent heterosexual. It just takes a special kind of man to get past all of my bullshit and get at the surprisingly vulnerable woman within.

I still get frissons when I remember the first time Bilal Winston and I made love. We'd just watched the movie Riddick at the Violet Crown Cinema, my favorite movie theater, and Bilal and I couldn't stop talking about the flick. I've been a fan of Vin Diesel ever since I can remember. I think he's mixed or something, but whatever he is, he's a beautiful man.

"Stop hating on Vin Diesel," I told Bilal, after he pouted and told me that Vin Diesel wasn't all that. The tall African-American stud grinned, then he pulled me close and kissed me. We'd kissed before but this time, there was a passion and urgency in Bilal's kiss that hadn't been there before. I embraced Bilal with all of my might, and gave into the passion I felt for him.

Bilal and I got it on, right there in the darkened parking lot located behind the Violet Crown theater, on the hood of my bright red pickup truck. Bilal kissed me and caressed my tits through the tank top I wore. We did our thing, and soon Bilal had my pants off. My favorite stud laughed when he noticed that I had boxers on.

"I'm a tomboy, Bilal, and we've been known to wear boxer shorts, now quit laughing or I'll keep them on," I said smugly, and Bilal kissed me, then off came my boxer shorts. My stud laid me there, and I spread my legs invitingly for him. Bilal buried his face between my legs, and licked my pussy. I moaned softly as Bilal licked me and fingered me...expertly.

Bilal is really good at eating pussy, folks. I love a man who can lick my cat, not that I've had many guys do that to me. Between my tomboyish style, my anger issues and my having an overprotective cop for a father, I scare off a lot of guys. Bilal is different. The brother from Chicago is manly and confident. Also, my Pops approves of him, and that matters to me. Awkward thing for me to be thinking about, but weird things shoot through someone's mind during sex.

After polishing my hot, sweaty cunt with his wicked tongue, Bilal freed his long and thick manhood from his pants, and I greedily stroked it, and then proceeded to squat down before him and go for the taste test. If a guy doesn't smell or taste right, I don't let him into my pussy. Bilal's dick tasted wonderful, smelled manly and musky, and wickedly intoxicating. What a man!

I got Bilal's dick nice and hard, then he rolled a Magnum on it and took me for a ride. Or was it the other way around? Bilal lay on the hood, and I climbed on top of him. I impaled myself on Bilal's dick, and the handsome African-American stud smacked my thick mixed derriere and thrust into me. Locking eyes with Bilal, I rode him hard. Bilal caressed my breasts, small though they may be, and even sucked on them as we made love.

We went at it for a good while, and I'd cum at least once by the time all the noise we were making attracted the attention of nearby theater attendees. Let's just say that Bilal and I got out of the Violet Crown theater parking lot in a hurry, and we haven't been back there since. It was our first time making love, Bilal and I, and it was certainly epic.

"Sister Bee, quit daydreaming and watch the presentation," Bilal said, playfully pinching my inner thigh. I snapped out of my lustful reverie, and playfully slapped Bilal's thigh. Bilal rolled his eyes, and I focused my gaze on Professor Pat's video presentation about the ethics of law enforcement in a racially diverse society and how it connects to sociology of deviance.

"Sounds good to me," I replied, and Bilal squeezed me tight, kissed me on the ear and resumed watching the video. The classroom was dark, since the projector was old-fashioned. The great, wealthy and diverse state of Texas doesn't fund small schools like Austin Community College as well as it should, I'm afraid.

Politics rule all, and the higher education system is most definitely not an exception. Especially in the great state of Texas. All the money goes to the major institutions like Texas Tech or University of Houston. Overrated and oversized bozos if you ask me. I squeezed Bilal's hand, and even though I go to a small school, have a troubled life, parents that embarrass me and anger issues, I'm still happy. I've got two great men in my life, the first is my Pops, and the second is my sweet Bilal. Life is good.

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