by Tomas, G. L.
“Aren’t you looking forward to spending time with tu abuelita? You always used to like going over there before you got a phone.” With doe eyes, she peered at me.
“I still liking going over Abuelita’s house; it’s just she always takes my phone and makes me read all those old Spanish classics with words I don’t know. She says the reason I don’t speak Spanish well is because I don’t try, but I don’t want to speak Spanish. Literally, everyone at my school wants to learn Korean.”
I rolled my eyes, feigning sympathy. My daughter hadn’t known the mother I’d been privileged to grow up with. The woman who longed to be educated. The woman who left her life in Central Africa in a time where her homeland’s government was so corrupt that to give her only daughter a better life, she relocated to Spain to clean houses, only to start all over again when I was five when we moved to make our permanent home in the US.
My mother didn’t have the pleasure of knowing how to read and write, so when she learned, she consumed anything, devoured everything in her native Spanish she could get her hands on. In addition to working multiple jobs in the span of my lifetime, she exhausted all her efforts to come up with ways for me to be able to go to college without the burden of me having to take up a part-time job to help pay for it. African mothers were selfless in that way. Always trying to shield their children from the problems in their own lives. I knew in a way I’d inherited that burden. The last thing I ever wanted was to worry my child with the news of me being laid off. The less she knew, the happier she was. It was her laughter and joy that made me feel like if I worked hard enough, everything would just work out without her ever knowing there was a problem to begin with.
“Nena. It’s good to read sometimes and get your attention away from that phone. All you do is play games on it anyway. It makes tu abuelita happy to see you take interest in something she wasn’t afforded when she was your age. Can you imagine what it would be like if you couldn’t go to school every day, mi amor?” Her wide eyes grew the size of silver dollars at the idea of thinking not going to school meant you stayed home all day and did whatever you wanted. I was sure the mischievous grin forming on her face would falter knowing that in Equatorial Guinea, where my both of my parents were originally from, it only meant you started working earlier. Grew up sooner. Experienced life harder. This little girl had a hard enough time understanding the importance of making her bed every morning. Sometimes it was hard explaining to her that the sacrifices women made for you in the past, made things easier for you in the future.
It was hard teaching the younger generation that what your elders taught you were lessons you wouldn’t learn any place else. It was something I didn’t even appreciate until my grandparents passed. I wished I’d gotten more time to spend with them, and I know that was my mother’s greatest regret in not sending me back home enough. When the money was there, we tried to visit both Spain and Equatorial Guinea, but with my mother’s health worsening each day, I limited the travel I did to just me and my daughter. Besides a few distant relatives in Equatorial Guinea, we didn’t have much family there anyway, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in showing Olivia where we’d both come from. My daughter and I were all my mom had at this point.
“You’ll understand when you’re older but spending time with Abuelita is something you’ll look back on and appreciate that you did. Swear to me that you’ll mind her,” I pleaded. My mom had the spirit to be around children but not always the energy.
“Plus, I’m sure if you ask nicely, she’ll make you her famous Nkate cake.” At the suggestion, her toothy grin took up half of her face knowing her favorite snack of all time could be within reach. The thing with Olivia was that she had no problem getting what she wanted from adults. All she had to do was flash that adorable smile of hers and like that, she could convince the Queen of England to adopt her.
When we got out of the car, I was greeted with my smaller-framed, spitting image at the hilt of her door, waiting for us. We shared the same deep, dark skin and I was fortunate to be blessed with her striking cat-shaped eyes and model-like cheekbones. I used to hate the full lips I’d inherited from her but it was those same lips that garnered me my first compliment ever from the first boy I had my heart set on. From then on, I learned to love the skin I was in; in hindsight my mother was my first example of beauty. If she hadn’t been five inches shorter than me, we could’ve passed for sisters.
She lived in Baldwin Park, a place she decided would be easier for her to navigate since her Spanish was that of a native, making it easier for her to find a job and blend in. Many of the Mexican and Central Americans assumed that we were from The Dominican Republic, only to find out we weren’t Caribbean at all but instead African. I loved the history lesson all our neighbors received on how my mom’s little speck on the map became the first and only Spanish-speaking country on the African continent. It was a loud neighborhood, sketchy and definitely a place where I couldn’t see raising my daughter in a permanent setting. But for me, it was home.
“Mama, como está usted?” I asked which she then followed by asking me the same question in her Equatoguinean Spanish. Olivia proceeded to greet my mom in the same manner, but with the limited phrases she knew how to say. I’d wanted to get around to teaching her conversational Spanish, but where we lived and where she went to school, she had no desire to learn. No one spoke it to her but me and although she was only seven I still had faith that she was attentive enough to learn when I was ready to school her. For now, it served as a way for my mom and me to communicate without her worrying about adult problems.
“María Bendición, estoy bien, mi hija. Especially now that my favorite person is here.” She kneeled down to Olivia as she flew into her arms. Sure, my mom wasn’t as young as she used to be, but in the presence of my daughter, I often forgot. Upon entering her home, I was reminded of both Catholic and Central African traditions that made up the mélange of my identities. As Olivia rushed to the kitchen, our conversation in Spanish ensured we could speak privately without the little one asking us any questions.
“So does the Finn know or are you still going to keep him in the dark? You of all people should know what it’s like to grow up fatherless. You would think he’d want to know his own child.”
I rolled my eyes at her comparing my situation to Olivia’s, which wasn’t the same at all. My father knew about me and just didn’t want to give up his freedom of being responsible for someone other than himself. He had no desire to travel the world or was even curious to know me. Olivia was different. I’d gotten pregnant with him at a time I’d thought Olli and are were over. His discovering I was with child would have only forced him to stay in the US where he was miserable. I wasn’t trying to keep Olli any more than he was trying to be kept. In the short time we were married, he didn’t talk about wanting kids right away, nor did we discuss what would change if we decided to family plan. No, we rushed into things so fast that we’d both discovered that first love didn’t always mean last love.
We were both trying to move on. A baby would have only forced him to stay in an unhappy situation. I loved him but I loved my unborn baby more. Olivia was my choice, even knowing I’d end up being a single mom due to my decision not to tell him.
“Ma, you know that my dilemma is much different than my daughter’s. I’ll tell him if the moment presents itself, but if it doesn’t, Olivia can seek him out when she’s older. I’m not going to force fatherhood on a man who’s about fly me out to divorce me just so he can marry another woman. My child doesn’t need that sort of rejection.”
My mom gestured for me to bend down on the sofa. There were often times when I appreciated her advice, but sometimes I just wanted her to take me in her arms and comfort me without chastising the decisions I made for my life.
“M’ija, I know you see yourself as strong, but there’s nothing stronger than the effect a man’s promise could have over you. Even if you don’t tell him about Olivia, just don’t go over th
ere falling in love again. I guarantee you, the second time you won’t recover from it. To fall in love at this stage of your life, you have the tendency to think of everything with finality. I remember for months, he was all you talked about because you were so happy. I don’t want him to be the reason why, for months, you talk about how heartbroken he’s made you. Sign the papers. Let him marry this other girl but don’t let him be the one to break you again. Men like that tend to bulldoze whatever they have to get their way and don’t care who they end up tearing down in the process.”
As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. I was headed to Finland for one simple task with an even tougher truth to carry. He had the power to still captivate me, but I had to stay strong and not give in to the words or the promises from the past we shared together. The man was getting married for goodness sake. What more reason did I need not to fall victim to the feelings we had for each other for what seemed like a lifetime ago?
* * *
Then(Eight Years Ago)
Sweat lined my perfectly powdered forehead as I entered the restaurant where I was set to meet my potential partner. In the two years I’ve frequented my birth country of Spain, I’d used the service twice and was pleased with the screening process provided to seek out a kinky playmate as I lived out my fantasies before I returned home to the real world. The usual lifestyle sites were a mess to keep up with while you were living in another country, and the free ones were just full of horny dudes who often weren’t true, what I liked to call “lifestyle junkies”. All they wanted was rough sex without the ins and outs of providing a true sub like me what she needed to flourish in a relationship. I longed for order and discipline but I also loved Doms who were thoughtful and romantic.Which was why it was good to make friends in the community; otherwise, this kinky matchmaker service would have completely gone over my head.
Mistress Alice, an insanely beautiful and ageless French woman, had been a Dominant for over forty-five years, and I’d met her at a gathering over three years ago in Las Vegas. After an enlightening exchange, she learned of my plans to travel once I graduated from school and told me to link up with her if I ever came back to Europe. Time passed and things got hectic to the point where I’d almost forgot about my dear friend Mistress Alice until I was in search of something that helped keep my mind off of the loneliness I felt from being away from home. I learned that she along with another good friend in the European community, had started a matchmaking service with the promise to match the right kinks to the right people.
My first ever Dominant in Europe was from Barcelona and while we fit on a kink level, he didn’t mention having more than one sub, which I expressed early on that I wasn’t okay with. My second, a native of Madrid, like me, was my perfect Dom in a kink sense but he was unemotionally available to me. That was something I needed being so far away from my only family. I needed to feel loved and secure or at least for the rest of my time here. Long distance relationships rarely ever worked out, so I was prepared to rev up for an intense relationship only to have to break up at the end of my last few months here, a time that was quickly approaching. What I wasn’t primed for was the six-foot-four Finnish import Olli Pekka Touminen, who unknowingly planned to rock my world and have me altering my entire life plan.
He sat there, drink to his lips, waiting for me. We hadn’t been given much about each other’s descriptions outside of the distinguishing red roses we’d been asked by Mistress Alice to wear. I chose to wear mine in my thick mass of curls, feeling it would take away from my winter white wrap dress that highlighted the best parts of my womanly body. My small waist, feminine hips, and what I considered my long legs until the moment Olli became aware of me approaching our table, stood and towered over me with his overpowering Nordic frame.
A moss green button-down layered over a white tee shirt hugged his naturally built form; the red rose clipped to his front pocket making him easier to spot in a crowded restaurant. But it was his eyes that made me feel like a poor, little bunny getting its leg caught in a bear claw. He had these wide, arctic green eyes that anyone could get lost in, and although he didn’t greet me with a smile, he came around to pull out my chair after confirming I was his date for the night. His eyes studied me in an almost hawkish manner before I finally broke the first thirty seconds of silence with my first question.
“Do I have something on my face? You’re just staring at me,” I added with a breathy laugh. Not that I minded. The way he looked at me, a girl could get used to it. His face was charming and undeniably masculine. Sharp lines made up his cheeks and jawline; however, his lips were pouty and unusually full. At first glance, he could have been described as odd-looking, but to me, I’d found that to be the most striking thing about him.
“My apologies, it’s just…you’re much prettier than Mistress described you.” At that, I didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense. Just how did Mistress Alice describe me? Maybe I wasn’t the standard of European beauty, but I set my own standard of what I thought to be beautiful. I didn’t compare myself to other women because the only competition I had at this point was me and only me. “Okay, I’m curious as to how she described me,” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood.
He took another sip of his nearly devoured drink. “She told me that you weren’t my usual type of girl,” he started in heavily accented English, “but that I would like you anyway. I thought that it would mean that I wouldn’t find you attractive.”
“And do you? Find me attractive?” I asked with a coy smile curving at the right side of my lips.
“Yes. Overwhelmingly so. In fact, when you first walked in, I silently prayed that you weren’t Benny. In my experience with American women, I’m rarely ever their type. I’m not loud or flashy, and those seem to be the most common traits that women from the US like the most. If I’m offending you, please, don’t be afraid to let me know.” Mistress Alice was right about one thing. He wasn’t the best with words, but I adored his honesty and sincerity. Plus, I liked the strong, silent type, just as long as he was able to communicate his wants and needs to me.
“Did she tell you that I was Black?” He scooted in closer to the table when the waiter came to ask if we were ready to order. In my mother’s native flair, I placed our orders. That seemed to ease Olli’s anxiety with his limited knowledge of the language.
“She didn’t but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference to me if I’d known. I told her that I was interested in meeting women in the kink scene of different cultures, being that I’m not in my home country. All I wanted was someone who spoke English as well as I did since my Spanish could use some practice. She informed me of a girl she knew was born in Madrid but who was naturalized in the States and spoke perfect English. As long as she thought we’d be a good fit for each other, I trusted her opinion.” Well, that was a relief. Periodically you had your fetish-obsessed white guy who had a thing for black pussy, especially in Spain where the average Spaniard mistook a Black woman for a prostitute. It calmed my concerns that he didn’t have a “thing” for darker skinned women but rather openness to diversifying his attraction.
“She mentioned you studying business?”
He nodded. “Yes, at UC3M in their master’s program.”
“Interesting.”
He shrugged. “Ehh, maybe,” he dismissed, sounding not too impressed with himself. At this point, I assumed he was just being bashful so I took took the opportunity to call him out on it.
“Listen, Olli, you don’t have to be shy with me. I don’t bite, but I do expect you to,” I said with a flirty wink that finally got a smile out of him for the first time since I sat down. He had a beautiful smile, actually. Two rows of the straightest, whitest teeth I’d seen on a European. They weren’t as mouth obsessed as Americans, but you would have never known it seeing Olli’s smile.
“Benny, I apologize. I promise I’m never this nervous. It’s just being in a foreign country and one of my first experiences being set up by a m
atchmaker looking for…” he hesitated, “what it is I’m looking for. Getting to know you as a person is just as important to me as getting to know you in a kinky sense. I feel I am doing a poor job at the former,” he admitted as he went to scratch his nose.
“You’re doing fine, and it is okay to ask me personal questions.”
“Are you married?” At twenty-four, the last thing I was thinking about was being someone’s wife, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t open to it. I learned that he was also completely single and had no children from any previous relationships. A plus for me.
“What kind of relationship are you looking for? A playmate? A friend with benefits? Something more serious?” The waitress dropped off our plates as I cut into my chicken and popped a piece into my mouth before I answered his question.
“I guess I’m open to all that you’ve mentioned, but the truth is I’d love a relationship that was headed into something more serious.”
“Why?” he asked as the simplicity of the question took me by surprise. “Why am I looking for something more serious?” I felt my eyebrows cinch.