Full Figured 7 Page 3

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” I told her, placing the compact back in my purse and turning to face her. “What are you so nervous about? That those people back in that ballroom know I’m in love with you?”

  “They might with the way you said you loved me staring all lovesick in my direction.”

  “I don’t hear you complaining when I tell you that I love you while you’re laid on top of me, so what’s the problem?” I asked, even though I already knew.

  “You know what the problem is.”

  “You really think my fans will love me less if they knew the truth?”

  “Yes, now they would. It would be worse coming out now since you’ve been flaunting Franco around for years as your man. You’ll come off confused and unstable.”

  “First, Franco was your idea and had I come out before him, that wouldn’t even be a problem,” I retorted. “Second, how many women discover themselves later in life? I could be one of them. ‘Singer Falls in Love With Woman, Comes Out as Lesbian.’ Can’t you see the headline? People will eat it up. It’s only halfway true, but at least I don’t have to live in secret all the time. We don’t have to live in secret all the time,” I added.

  Ace shook her head adamantly. “We can’t, we’re too close to you reaching the superstardom you’ve worked so hard for,” she tried to convince me.

  “I’m already a superstar,” I reminded her. “But at what sacrifice? What if I go on to sell millions of records? Does it even matter if I can’t celebrate it with the woman I love? If I have to kiss you behind closed doors after kissing Franco in front of everyone else? Is it worth it?”

  “Aren’t you willing to do whatever it takes to make it? What happened to the eager girl I met on her twenty-first birthday?”

  “I’m right here but I’m no longer twenty-one,” I reminded her. “Eleven years ago I was happy to stay undercover with you. I didn’t know it was going to go this far, lying and acting like I have a man. Now I’ve lost myself in this whole mess.” I looked out of the window at the darkened streets. “I’m tired, Ace. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I shouldn’t have to either. I’m Sugar; plenty of women would be happy to have me on their arm.”

  “Don’t go there with me,” she warned. “Not after all I’ve done for you.”

  I looked at her again. “You get paid for it, my dear, so don’t go acting like I owe you shit. You’re so sure coming out will ruin my career, but I’m willing to take that chance. I’ve toured the world, hung with more celebrities than most people can imagine, and my bank account is quite comfortable. If it all ended today, I’d still be happy if I still had you.”

  I hoped Ace would feel the sincerity of my words. I hoped she would realize how much she meant to me by knowing I was willing to sacrifice nearly twenty years of work for her.

  “We can’t,” Ace insisted.

  “No, you can’t. What’s the problem, you scared for people to know you’re a dyke? You think people can’t look at you and figure that out?”

  Ace was wearing a black tuxedo, and though it was soft, contoured, and feminine, it was her constant signature style at special events and occasions. She always had on pants and a jacket. Her hair had remained short since I met her; she alternated various cuts dependent upon the “in” look at the time. Ace’s face was beautiful; her eyes were a shade of green, a random trait inherited somewhere in her family lineage. Even in her late thirties, her skin remained flawless. She focused on drawing attention to her lips and her smile, her most captivating feature, with dramatic shades of lipstick from deep browns to reds to pale shades of nude; they all looked great on her. Yet with her gentlewoman exterior, there was no mistaking Ace as a lesbian. Perhaps stereotypical to suggest, but it may have been the aggressive and confident nature with which she carried herself and handled those she encountered. She wore the pants, literally and figuratively, and could be a stubborn bitch when handling business. I guessed that was the reason I had succumbed to the status of our relationship for so long; I was the star, but had surrendered to her authority.

  “It doesn’t matter to me what people think, it’s what they know,” Ace told me. “People can speculate all day long about me, you, Franco, trying to figure out if the whole shebang is false. But if they don’t know, if they don’t have proof, then to me we can always chuck it off as haters trying to mess up your game. It’s career suicide for both of us if we come out as a couple.”

  “Cool, all right. Well it’s time for me to start making some decisions, then. I can start tonguing Franco on the red carpet, because I saw how much you loved that. I can start playing the role better than you thought I could. Or maybe it’s time for me to move on,” I threatened.

  “You won’t,” Ace challenged.

  “Guess you’ll have to wait and see, now won’t you?”

  The limo pulled up to Ace’s condominium on the north end of downtown Chicago. For convenience, I lived in another condominium only five blocks away. The closeness made it easy for us to spend evenings at the other’s place.

  I didn’t budge when the driver opened my door. “Aren’t you coming?” Ace asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Driver,” Ace said. The driver closed the door and stood positioned outside the limo. “Come on, Sugar, don’t be like this,” she pleaded.

  “I’m for real; if you don’t want to share me with the world, why should I keep sharing myself with you in hiding? I’m better than that,” I declared.

  “You’re better than most people, which is why I’m trying to give you the best possible career, can’t you see that?”

  “What about love? Is this the best love you can give me, where no one else can see?”

  Ace dodged the question and detoured to my weakness: my body. “Come on, you look so sexy tonight. I want you,” she whispered. She took a chance and leaned to kiss my ear. I was sure she was confident the driver couldn’t witness our interaction through the midnight black tinted glass. “Give me some of your sugar,” she begged, her voice soft and desiring me.

  My body immediately responded. Sex with Ace was just as exhilarating as the electricity I felt when singing on stage in front of thousands. She fed my ego like an obsessed fan, raving at how much she loved every curve of my body. During lovemaking, Ace’s sole purpose was my enjoyment; she required little if any attention, seemingly satisfied to have the opportunity to please me, like a devoted groupie, content just to be in my presence. Why couldn’t she worship me the same otherwise?

  “No,” I decided to the discontent of the throbbing I felt below. “Not tonight.”

  Ace jerked back, surprised. “You’ve never turned me down,” she stated factually.

  “It’s a new day, Ace. You either want all of me, or nothing at all.”

  She groaned angrily. “Call me in the morning once you’ve come to your right mind.” She tapped the window, the driver opened the door, and she got out. Back inside, the driver lowered the glass separating me from him.

  “Home, ma’am?”

  “Not yet,” I told him. “Take me to Boystown.”

  He tipped his head at me and the glass rose again. My body was hot and my ego deflated. I needed a fix and what better cure than for a celebrity to show up unannounced at the club where all the gay boys adored me like the leader of a cult. If I was lucky, maybe there would be a female worshipper mingling with the boys, one who wouldn’t mind a spoonful of my sugar tonight.

  Chapter 4

  Sugar Kiss

  On the dance floor I was surrounded by sweaty, topless men gyrating their bodies to the overpowering bass pounding through the massive speakers throughout the club. Pink, blue, and white lights flashed across the floor in unison with the fast-paced thumps of the music. Barefoot, with my heels in my hand, I moved with the crowd, feeling the vibrations from my toes to my fingertips.

  I had been to many gay clubs during my years of performing, mostly for paid guest appearances and when I traveled to p
erform at small venues across the country, and other times with some of the male backup singers I befriended on the road. Per Ace’s instructions, I never left the VIP section and was not allowed to mingle with the patrons other than for an autograph. Ace would have had a fit if she saw me now, with one pretty boy grinding innocently against my ass while I pumped my hips against another hottie in front of me. When the DJ played the club-mix version of “He’s the One,” the crowd went wild, screaming my name over and over. “Sugar, Sugar, Sugar!” My crushed ego was repaired.

  After my song went off, I squeezed through the party-goers to the crowded bar, with people stepping back and parting like the Red Sea to make room for me. Before I could order, a lemon drop martini was placed before me. “We read it’s your favorite,” the male bartender told me with a wink of his blue eyes rimmed with black eyeliner. Though I was overwhelmed with thirst, I sipped the drink delicately, ladylike, like a diva should.

  A moment later, an eccentric-looking woman emerged from the dance floor and walked up to me. She wore a vest with no shirt, ankle-length skinny jeans, and high-top Converse. Her hair, a spiked Mohawk, was damp with sweat. She was about five feet two inches, skinny, and as unwomanly as a prepubescent sixth grader.

  “I sing,” she told me as her introduction.

  I’d be rich if I had a dime for every time I heard that. “What do you sing?” I asked.

  “I’m the lead singer in an all-girl band called Beau. We sing at small clubs in Chicago. Have you heard of us?” she asked, hopeful, her already oversized eyes bulging with anticipation while she waited for my response.

  “No, darling, I haven’t.”

  “Well, we’d be honored for you to come to one of our performances.”

  If I had another dime for that statement too, I’d have made the Forbes richest people list. “Do you have a card? A Web site? I’ll see what I can do,” I lied.

  “Sure. The site is ‘Beau Luv 4 U.’ That’s b-e-a-u l-u-v, number four, letter u.”

  I sipped my drink. “Sure, sure, I’ll look you up.” I turned my back to her and faced the bar. The bartender stopped preparing a drink in the middle of pouring shots of vodka into a glass to check and see if I needed assistance.

  “You good, Miss Sugar?” he asked, and eyed the young-looking girl.

  “Right now I am, thank you,” I answered. “Don’t stray too far,” I added.

  “Maybe you’d like to meet another member of the group,” the little one suggested, continuing her conversation.

  I turned around again. “What’s your name, honey?” I asked.

  “I call myself Rock in the group; my real name is Sandy.”

  “Okay, Rock. Sandy. Who else do you have here?” I asked, hoping for a quick meet and greet so I could move on with enjoying the rest of the night. I loved my fans, but not always up close and personal, and not the ones who didn’t know how to take a hint that their time with me was up.

  Rock Sandy waved her hand to someone across the club. I couldn’t tell exactly who through the thick throng of bodies. Then I saw a woman appear to my right. She had the same off-the-wall style as Rock Sandy, but expressed her irregular look with a provocative edge. She wore knee-high riding boots over bare legs that led to a short, fitted clingy dress that hugged her body. A heavy belted chain hung at her waist, with an extended piece that connected and looped around the top of her boots. Her makeup was as extreme as some of the drag queens in the place, dark and exaggerated around the eyes. Her hair, a massive untamed ’fro of curls, frizzed into a bobbing halo around her head.

  “This is Trendy, our guitarist and bass player,” Rock Sandy told me. “Trendy, I need not tell you who this is.”

  She held her hand out to me. I shook it. “A pleasure,” we said to each other simultaneously. Rock Sandy walked away.

  “Would you like a drink?” I asked her, flipping my usual role of accepting a drink and making an offer instead.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m driving tonight,” she explained.

  “How decent of you,” I commented and took a sip of my martini. “So, is Trendy your real name or your band name?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure it’s got to be your band name.”

  “My real name is Nisha. I go by Trendy in the group.”

  “Nisha, I like that.”

  Nisha blushed.

  “I like Trendy, too. Do you have a preference?”

  “For you, please call me Nisha.”

  “Okay then, Nisha, how long have you been playing?”

  Nisha leaned her back against the bar, and rested her elbows against the counter. Her bracelets danced circles around her wrists. “Since I was about eleven.”

  “And how many years have passed since you were eleven?” I asked, curious to know her age.

  She smiled. “Twelve years.”

  I did the math. “Twenty-three, okay. So young—”

  “I’m legal,” she said.

  “Yes, that you are,” I replied, eyeing the way the muscles in her thighs flexed when she adjusted her weight from her right leg to her left.

  “But I’ve been following you for as long as I can remember. When I was about ten I saw you perform at a fair. Your voice is stunning. I’ve followed you since. You’ve been so influential to us singers and musicians in Chicago. We love you,” she told me.

  Of course you love me. “I’m flattered,” I responded honestly.

  Nisha turned around and leaned face forward against the bar, her palms resting at the edge of the counter. “I have to say, I never thought I’d see you here, in this club, outside of the VIP section and alone I might add.” Her eyes were curious.

  I finished my drink and placed it on the counter. The bartender promptly took the glass and replaced it with a freshly made martini. “Well, every now and then a change of scenery is good for the soul.”

  Nisha, young and smart, was not complacent with my explanation. “That’s true. But here?” She looked around the place filled with openly gay individuals. “I bet there are a million other options you had, but you came here. Isn’t that something?” She leaned her head to the side and awaited my answer.

  “I love music, all kinds of music, and I wanted to dance tonight,” I continued to explain. “And I love people, all kinds of people, and I wanted to meet some tonight,” I explained.

  “Interesting,” Nisha said, her eyes resting on mine. The color of her eyes was as deep, dark, and intense as her makeup. “I hope you’ve satisfied your goal for the evening.”

  “I believe I have,” I told her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? I can have my driver take you home if needed,” I invited, realizing it was probably unwise to ask a stranger into my limo with me. But if anything happened to me after I left the club, there would be at least a hundred witnesses who would have seen Nisha leave with me.

  Nisha didn’t object to my second request and ordered a brandy with Coke. “Thank you.” She took a long swig.

  Nisha and I continued our conversation. She told me the history of Beau and how long the group had been together, explaining that she and Rock Sandy had been friends since high school when they created the band, which had grown to six members. She and Rock Sandy considered themselves the leaders of the band, and on their own secured the band’s gigs. “Someday we will need management if we want to reach the level of success we seek,” she told me.

  “That’s true; the right manager will help get you where you want to be. That’s been my experience.”

  “I know. I’ve read all your interviews and you always give thanks and praise to your manager,” Nisha acknowledged.

  I nodded my head and told Nisha the short version of how Ace helped blossom my career. A story she already knew from her readings.

  “You two have been together a long time,” she commented.

  I nodded. “A long time indeed. But, enough talk about me,” I said, something I had never in my life said before. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Me?” Nisha questioned.
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br />   “Of course, you. You’re not here just to hold up this bar, are you?” I teased.

  “No, not at all.” She quickly swallowed the remainder of her drink. “Let’s go.” Without asking, Nisha took my hand in hers and led me to the middle of the floor, where we immediately became the center of attention. The high-energy music still pumped through the speakers and we danced fervently to the beat.

  After twenty minutes of nonstop movement, I was tired and sweaty. I asked Nisha if she was ready to leave. She told me that she was, and she would be right out after she gave Rock Sandy her keys. I waited in the limo for a few minutes, which granted me the chance to touch up my makeup. Within five minutes the driver opened the door for Nisha. She settled comfortably into the leather seat across from me.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Not far, a little bit west of here,” she told me and gave me the address, which I gave to the driver. “Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Um, Rock told me she invited you to a performance. I’d love for you to come as a special guest. A special guest of mine if that’s okay. When your schedule permits of course.”

  “I think I can make time for that. I’ll check your site for dates and coordinate it with my schedule.”

  Nisha blushed again. Her brown skin had had a flushed, flustered reddish undertone since we said hello. “You know, Sugar, I am a true fan of yours. I hope you don’t mind if I ask for your autograph.” She smiled gently.

  “Absolutely. Come.” I patted the empty space next to me. Hunched and bent forward, Nisha crept across the limo and sat at my side. She began to riffle through her purse until she pulled out a small pad of paper and pen.

  “I use this pad to write lyrics that spontaneously come to mind. Even though we sing mostly covers, every so often we perform our own songs, too,” she said proudly.

  “I carry paper around for the same reason,” I responded, and took her pad of paper from her. On the inside flap I wrote, “Nisha, it’s been a pleasure,” then signed my name in its signature form with a large, oversized “S.” Next, I placed my mouth on the paper and left an imprint of perfectly shaped puckered lips.