The Supernatural Lives Among Us

Beneath its veneer of intellectualism, liberalism and cosmopolitan outlook, Boston is a place teeming with Supernatural elements, so you'd think a Wolf-Woman like myself would feel right at home. The Supernatural mixes with the mundane quite beautifully. Ordinary people would be quite surprised to find out that members of the Blue Man Group are not what they appear, for example.

Walk into a classroom at Northeastern University and you'd be quite surprised to find out that the stocky, hairy Mediterranean-born gentleman teaching bored students about Greek Mythology and its influence on western literature is actually a Satyr. Yes, one of those half-man, half-goat little things that are so common in the myths of ancient Greece and Rome. They're no myth, and they walk among us. Deal with it.

A certain Olympic female swimmer hailing from Massachusetts is quite renowned for her beauty and athleticism, and has millions of admirers worldwide. I've seen her videos on YouTube and her interviews with CNN and ESPN. Take it from me, there's a secret to her success. She's actually a Mermaid. Yes, one of those half-human, half-fish entities that Disney made so famous in those old cartoon movies and television series it got so damn wrong.

Take it from me, a denizen of the Supernatural world. In real life, Mermaids don't go around looking for hapless sailors to rescue and seduce. Nope, they're more likely to eat you than rescue you, since their craving for human flesh is quite well-known, at least among us non-humans, but that's a story for another time. Steer clear of Mermaids and Mermen for your own good, though.

Walk around Chinatown and step into one of those various little shops catering largely to tourists, and you might see a little old Asian man with a harmless smile offering you charming little trinkets. Ordinary mortals like yourselves might see a harmless old Asian grandpa, but my Wolf's senses would easily detect one of the Jiangshi, a reanimated corpse not unlike the Zombies of western pop culture, but far more intelligent, cunning and dangerous.

The other day, I was hanging around Jamaica Plains, and walked into a neat little Afro-Caribbean restaurant, intent on sampling some tasty Haitian food. I'm addicted to Haitian cuisine, folks. The tall, handsome and dark-skinned, well-dressed young Haitian man working behind the counter smiled at me and I smiled back. Several of the female patrons were fawning over this handsome chef, but I knew his secret the moment I walked in and casually sniffed the air. Definitely non-human, and of a sort that I didn't spot too often...

"Orisha," I thought to myself, smiling as the chef's eyes met mine. In case you don't know, the Orishas are a breed of Supernatural entities hailing from the myriad nations of West Africa. According to West African myth and legend, they have vast powers and often go about in human form. I'm told that they can shape-shift at will, among other things. They are the intermediaries between the world of Man and the Realm of the Gods. Or something to that effect.

"What's your pleasure, sister?" said the handsome young Haitian man, whose name tag read Joseph. I smiled at him and ordered myself a plate of white rice, brown bean sauce, fried plantains and goat meat. Afterwards, I sat down and ate, taking my time to savor the meal and doing a bit of reading instead of obsessing with my phone like so many people nowadays. Time waits for no woman, so savor all of what life has to offer, I say...

"Great food, Mr. Joseph, thank you very much, I'll definitely be back," I said to the handsome Orisha, whose eyes sparkled bright yellow for a second, before returning to their usual brown color, as he cleared my table. Joseph smiled at me and I left him a generous tip. I wished him a good day, then got up and walked out of the restaurant. I could feel Joseph's eyes on me as I left. Had me smiling as I got on the bus and headed back to Boston proper...

Encounters like that no longer surprise or faze me in any way. Mundane folk like yourselves think that the creatures and entities of myth and legend are nothing more than fairy tales. And you are dead wrong. With so many Magic-Wielders, Vampires, Werewolves, Demons and Monsters out and about, disguised as ordinary mortals, Boston is a veritable playground for inhuman breeds. Sadly, it's my human half that feels out of place here. Case in point? Considering my new stomping grounds.

"Aisha, happy Pride Day," Sheila Barnstable says to me, flashing me that fake smile all too common to those fake-smiling, pseudo-liberal queers that I'm seemingly always surrounded by. Sheila is a former classmate of mine, and we both work at Talbot's inside Copley Mall. She greets me like a friend would, as if I didn't hear her talk of how she approves of the government's plan to ban citizens from certain predominantly Muslim nations from entering the United States. Queer white liberal racism is definitely a thing, ladies and gentlemen.

I guess I'm supposed to smile back at Sheila, and exchange pleasantries, and pretend not to have heard her bullshit. After all, I am a queer woman and according to the rules of politics, Sheila and I should be allies. Unfortunately, I'm a woman with a sharp tongue. And I believe in keeping it real. I think that I was absent the day they sat all the good girls down and taught them the fine art of diplomacy. Speak nonsense in my presence and oftener than not, I will correct you. You've been warned.

"Miss me with that bullshit, Sheila, I'm from one of those countries you and the Republicans don't like," I reply hotly, and everyone inside Starbucks looks at me. Shaking my head, I get up and walk away. Outside, the bustling Boston traffic greets me. Just another bright and sunny, kind of frosty day on Commonwealth Avenue, ladies and gentlemen. As a student at Bay State College, these are my new digs. As you can see, I don't always get along with the locals.

My name is Aisha Samatar, and I'm a young Muslim woman of Somali descent living in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. I moved here from my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota, having had enough of the inter-clan wars pitting various Werewolves with their brethren. It's a miracle that the humans haven't discovered our secret wars by now. Luckily they've been disguised as gang wars, so for the moment, our secret remains safe.

"My daughter, until these foolish young Wolves are brought under control, you need to stay out of town," said my father, Ali Samatar, Imam of the Sal-Al-Din Masjid of Minneapolis, and a leader of the vast Somali-American community of Minnesota. I looked at my Aabo ( father ) as we sat in the family living room, and was surprised to see concern on his dark, handsome face. We've only got each other, Aabo and I. Mom passed when I was small.

Tall and gaunt but wiry and strong, with dark brown skin and slick silvery hair, my father is a pillar of our community. Um, a pillar of both our communities, I should say. Born in the City of Mogadishu, Somalia, Aabo was one of the first Somalis to set foot on American soil in the 1970s. As a Muslim immigrant from East Africa, and a Werewolf, he didn't have it easy but he worked hard to provide for his family and his clan.

My father raised me alone in a cutthroat, dangerous place like Minneapolis, and I'll forever be thankful for his love and his shining example. The Somali community isn't known for its tolerance towards gays and lesbians, but when I came out as a lesbian, not an easy thing for a Hijab-wearing Muslim woman, my father supported me even though the rest of our family disapproved.

Too bad a lot of the younger guys and gals in our community aren't like my Aabo. I'm referring to both halves of our brood, the human and the inhuman. Most Werewolves aren't as well-adjusted as I am. They're out there, acting a fool, and getting dangerously close to getting caught by the human authorities. I don't know what we'll do if one of those fools gets himself captured while in Wolfish form and exposes the Supernatural community...

Last summer, I got caught up in the inter-clan Werewolf wars, and it wasn't pretty. This happened one night while prowling around Foot Hills State Forest, located in Hubbard County, Minnesota. Like all of my kind, when the full moon comes, I prefer to be in the woods, where I can morph and roam freely without worrying about pesky humans watching me. I thought I was safe, and resumed my natural form, going from a tall, curvy young woman to a towering, seven-foot-tall, hairy creature that is both wolfish and humanoid. A veritable freak of nature. A Werewolf.

That's when they came. The others. The rogues of our community. A trio of young Werewolves that had designs on me. The thing about the inter-clan wars is that they won't leave you alone. You're either with them or against them. As a healthy, strong young female Werewolf of breeding age, I was a prime target for recruitment or extermination. Since I didn't want either, I ran, and throughout the night, these three young male Werewolves chased me. I managed to evade them, and when I told my father what happened, he shipped me to Boston.

Here I am, working and studying in Boston. Being who and what I am, I must walk a fine life. It's not easy being a six-foot-tall, curvy and dark-skinned, Hijab-wearing Muslim woman in today's America, even in a liberal and racially diverse place like Boston. Nevertheless, I walk tall as I stride through Boston Common park, and buy ice cream from a vendor. I give five bucks to the old Italian man and he smiles at me and nods, before wishing me a good day.

I smile and go about my day, licking my cone full of vanilla ice cream, and I close my eyes as I sit on a bench, and savor the moment as it were. Sitting in Boston Common park, I relax at last. I'm surrounded by the sights and smells of mother nature. There's a couple of squirrels mating in the tree to my right, and over by the canal, an old man is feeding the ducks. For the first time in a while, I feel alright. Of course, moments like this don't last...

"I knew I'd find you here," came a feminine voice, and my eyes snapped open. Stacey Wellers stood there, looking fantastic in a red T-shirt, blue jeans that are cut off at the knees, and shiny Black sneakers. Her short, kinky dark hair is hidden by a Red Sox baseball cap. Her light brown skin glistens in the early afternoon sunlight. Licking her lips, Stacey looks me up and down, and I smile and gesture for her to come sit next to me.

"Are you stalking me now?" I reply with a smile, and Stacey grins nonchalantly, and leans a bit too close. So close that I can smell her perfume, and the men's deodorant she's so fond of. I knew this gal was trouble the moment I first saw her. Stacey and I met last semester in my Freshman Seminar class, held at a building on Saint James Street.

Bay State College owns or rents property all over the Back Bay Area, and our classes are sprawled over much of downtown Boston. I was new to the campus, and new to Boston, period. I was navigating my way around Bean Town, having moved there from Minneapolis, and I kept getting lost. One day, I was lost in the Back Bay and saw this tall, light-skinned, curvy and big-booty tomboy whom I knew I'd seen around campus, and hollered. Just a gal looking for directions, no ulterior motives...

"Sure, I know where that building is, I'm going there," Stacey said to me, and her light brown eyes sparkled when they met mine. I smiled back at Stacey, and then we shook hands. Dutifully I followed her to Saint James, and got to my class on time. We ended up sitting next to each other, and became friends. Stacey is out and proud as a dyke, and so am I, though I am not part of any of the LGBT groups at Bay State College. Too many people like Sheila in those supposedly safe spaces. Thanks but no thanks.

"I'm totally stalking you, Aisha, what are you going to do about it?" Stacey says, flashing me her fearless smile and totally getting into my personal space. I smile at Stacey, and she looks at my traditional Islamic dress. Today, I'm wearing a flowery long skirt, bright green with reddish flowers, a dark red Hijab, and a shawl over my shoulders since it's both sunny and cold. People tend to stare at me wherever I go because, unlike Minneapolis, Boston doesn't have a big Muslim population. Whatever. I do my own thing. Let them stare.

"Keep stalking me and I might have to spank you," I reply, and Stacey grins, and I can tell that she's surprised by my candor and flirtation. I absolutely love butch-identified, masculine chicks like Stacey, whom us queer Black women call studs. They're always very sure of themselves and think that femmes like me are soft and sweet. I'm bossy and in-your-face, but I look harmless on the surface. It's the secret of my success...

"Hmm, sexy mamas, I'd like to see that," Stacey whispers, and she draws even closer, and brushes some lint or something from my skirt. I look at her, and smile. I like a bold woman, and they don't get bolder than Stacey. I can detect the change in her bodily smell. Male or female, gay or straight, a human being's smell changes when they are angry, aroused, or afraid. As a Wolf-Woman, I know this. And Stacey is definitely not angry or afraid, if you catch my drift...

"I bet you would," I reply, and I draw closer to Stacey, until our faces are inches apart. Tenderly, I stroke Stacey's face, and then I kiss her. That's right, the supposedly shy and demure, traditional Hijabi chick kissed the hot Black lesbian stud. Stacey's lips taste hot and sweet, passionate and intense, like the rest of us. We kiss with wild abandon, not caring that we're on a bench, in a public park. Passers-by gawk at us, and we ignore them...until we came up for air.

"Hmm, you are beautiful, and your lips taste wonderful," Stacey says hotly, and I smile at her. I look at her and she looks at me. Without another word, I get up and Stacey links her arm with mine. We walk around the park, and she whispers into my ear that her rented place on Marlborough Street isn't far. I smile at Stacey, and she playfully slaps my ass. We both know what's about to happen. Hurriedly we get to her apartment, and have ourselves a little afternoon delight...

There's something absolutely amazing about making love to someone for the first time. Stacey and I began kissing and undressing each other the moment she closed the door. I barely had time to take in the small but tasteful apartment. Chic, more fit for a professional than a student, but whatever. None of this matters to me, as Stacey and I embraced, craving each other, for I wanted her quite badly...

"It's been a while for me," I whispered as I sprawled on Stacey's bed, and the young tomboy stood before me, curvy and sexy, naked save for her Red Sox hat. My eyes flitted over her tall, curvy yet muscular body. Perky breasts, wide hips, thick legs and a big round ass. Hmm, everything I like in a woman, and then some. Stacey stands there, hands on her hips, a cocky grin on that lovely face...

"Hmm, I can tell, Aisha, do you like what you see?" Stacey replies, and I grin and nod. Smiling, she joins me on the bed. In the past, I've felt self-conscious about my body, for it's not easy being a tall, curvy and dark-skinned woman in a world that worships skinny blondes. Stacey kisses me and caresses me, and as she begins making love to me, telling me how beautiful I am, I relax and enjoy...

"Hmm, just like that," I whisper, and Stacey buries her lovely face between my thighs, and eats my pussy with gusto. I lick my lips, and sigh happily as my gorgeous lover goes to work on me. Stacey teases my clitoris with her tongue and fingers my pussy, driving me absolutely nuts. Soon I find myself moaning and groaning, as Stacey's expert tongue and finger action take me to the edge of passion...

"Show me that ass, gorgeous," Stacey chides me as she puts me on all fours, and I grin as she gets behind me, and playfully slaps my ass. I'm one freaky woman who doesn't hold back in the bedroom, so I twerk my thick Somali booty for my favorite tomboy. Laughing, Stacey kisses my ass, and then begins to eat my pussy from behind. I feel her sleek fingers slide into my pussy, and surrender to overwhelming sensations as Stacey works me over...

After riding Stacey's face for a while, I was ready to taste her. I love my studs, don't get me wrong, but sometimes they irk me with their quirks and self-imposed limitations. Some studs won't let another female go down on them. They also don't like to be penetrated, either with a tongue, fingers, or toys. Lucky for me, Stacey isn't like that. My gorgeous tomboy lies in my arms and opens herself to me...

"Just relax and enjoy," I whisper as I kiss Stacey, and caress her small breasts while sliding my hand between her thighs. Stacey tenses a bit as I begin fingering her, and I see hesitation in her eyes. I kiss her again, my way of reassuring her. Like I said, I know studs and their quirks and fears. In the bedroom, I like to please and be pleased, fuck and be fucked. I leave the political and self-conscious bullshit at the door. Do you feel me?

"Oh yeah, Aisha, fuck me," Stacey squeals, and I smile, delighted to hear the sounds she makes as I finger-fuck her. I hold Stacey down and suck on her tits, and work three fingers into her pussy, and then add a fourth. Stacey's lovely face contorts, and she grimaces as I begin fisting her. Soon her squeals turn into absolute screams, and she demands that I fuck her harder. I am happy to oblige her, and work my fist deep into her womanly core. Stacey is a shuddering, glorious mess as she climaxes, and I lap up her hot, girly cum with my tongue...

"What are you scared of?" I tease Stacey as I don the strap-on dildo she hands me, and she smiles and shrugs, then assumes the position. Stacey is a glorious sight as she gets on all fours. Whoever says that lesbian studs don't have booty never met this cutie. I caress Stacey's big, sexy ass, and then rub the dildo against her pussy. Gripping her hips, I thrust into her. A happy sigh escapes Stacey's lips as I begin to fuck her. Femme fucks butch lesbian stud. It does happen, oftener than you think...

"I ain't scared of Jack, now fuck me," Stacey demands, and I laugh and slap her ass, and then snatch that Red Sox Baseball cap from her head. Stacey turns around and shoots me a look of pure incredulity as I put the hat on my head, and then I resume fucking her. It's a real head trip for her, and that's what I'm counting on. I fuck Stacey with wild abandon, thrusting the dildo deep into her pussy. And I don't let up until my favorite tomboy taps out...

"You are amazing," I whisper into Stacey's ear as we lie in bed, lovingly entwined, sated for the moment. Stacey grins and kisses me on the lips, and hugs me tightly. For the first time in ages, I am happy. No, this isn't just the sex talking. Lesbians can distinguish between sex and love too, thank you very much. Stacey and I aren't girlfriends, but we are good friends, who've just crossed the line and fucked. Or made love. This complicates things, somewhat, but it doesn't have to...

"Right back at you, sexy mamas, we should definitely do this more often," Stacey says, flashing me that slick smile of hers. I smile and nod, and she rolls on top of me, and I feel her lips against mine, and my breasts against hers. I grasp her thick ass cheeks and squeeze them, and Stacey laughs. I feel her pussy mashed against mine, and we happily begin scissoring.

"See you tomorrow, sweetie, I've got, um, work tonight," I say to Stacey, later that evening. I've showered and gotten dressed. Stacey and I have been fucking non-stop all afternoon, and in between we had pizza and Pepsis. She offered me a beer but I refused, because I may be a lesbian, but I'm still very much a Muslim woman, thank you very much. I stand at Stacey's doorstep, and she hugs and kisses me, and I give her ass a firm squeeze.