by Nikki Rashan
Full Figured 7:
Carl Weber Presents
Nikki Rashan and Ni’chelle Genovese
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Sugar on the Side
Chapter 1 - A Walk Down Sugar Lane
Chapter 2 - Sugarcoated Lie
Chapter 3 - Give Me Some Sugar
Chapter 4 - Sugar Kiss
Chapter 5 - Sugar Momma
Chapter 6 - Sugar Temptation
Chapter 7 - Sugar High
Chapter 8 - Sugar Rush
Chapter 9 - Sugar Free
Chapter 10 - Sugar Craving
Chapter 11 - Sugar Spy
Chapter 12 - Sugar Freak
Chapter 13 - Sugar Fix
Chapter 14 - Sugar Fly: Six Months Later
Queen Con
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Win Won, Lost One
Chapter 2 - Just Roll Over And Play Dad
Chapter 3 - Would You Bleed For Dead Presidents?
Chapter 4 - Baby Wait. Baby W(e)ight?
Chapter 5 - When There’s Nothing Left, Go Right (10 Years Later)
Chapter 6 - My Blood Brother
Chapter 7 - The Afterlife After Death, After Death
Chapter 8 - Define The Word “Con” (Tia’s Definition)
Chapter 9 - The World Is Yours—Only If You Take It
Chapter 10 - All’s Well If Al Is Well
Chapter 11 - Two Birds—I’m Stoned
Chapter 12 - It Is What It Is Until It Isn’t—Or Is It?
Chapter 13 - Trouble With Two T’s
Chapter 14 - Deter-Money-Tion
Chapter 15 - The Devil In You Brings Out The Snake In Me
Copyright Page
Sugar on the Side
by Nikki Rashan
Chapter 1
A Walk Down Sugar Lane
My momma named me Sugar. I was born in a southside Chicago hospital at the end of August. It was 1981. Momma said it was her plan to name her first-born child the zodiac sign under which he or she was born, meaning, had I been born in February, I would have been walking around with folks calling me Aquarius or Pisces. Or Gemini or Cancer had I graced the world in June. But Momma, pregnant during a burning-hot summer, ate one scoop of vanilla ice cream twice a day to cool her sweating body in Chicago’s mid-year heat. She decided to bypass her original plan and name me after the sugar cone she nibbled on every day with her ice cream. She told me she nibbled just as much on my sweet, fat baby cheeks for many months after I was born.
My momma’s name was Noxzema. Yep, she was named after the famous cleansing cream, so it was no wonder she would have had no problem with a daughter named Virgo or a son named Sagittarius. As a child when my neighborhood friends would inquire, “What’s yo’ momma’s name?” I would make something up. Some days she was Mary, some days she was Pam. She was any name except Noxzema. I lied to avoid the snickering and in-my-face laughter I would encounter had I told the truth. It would have been the same kind of laughter I had endured when kids learned my name was Sugar. I was always teased and called different versions of sweet treats like Tootsie Roll, Slo Poke, or Swedish Fish.
I don’t think Momma realized the effects the name Sugar would have on me. It was as if she had had some sort of premonition for the sweet tooth I would develop as a youngster. Or maybe the name was a curse, who knew. Either way, I was sucking on Blow Pop after Blow Pop as a toddler, and devouring Hostess CupCakes and Twinkies in grammar school. I was never fat. I was pudgy at two and three, with a chubby, round face and protruding tummy. People told Momma I was adorable at that age. In fourth and fifth grades, I was chunky. Then people told Momma I had a pretty face but, “You better watch that baby’s eatin’,” they warned. My thighs rubbed together, my shirt rose over my belly, and I couldn’t run as fast as the other kids could during recess. If my foot happened to make contact with the ball during a game of kickball, which didn’t happen often, I would be hit “out” only halfway to first base. For that reason, I was usually picked last to be on a team during gym class and was the recipient of nonstop teasing from classmates about my poor athletic skills.
Life changed in 1994 when I discovered singing and sex at thirteen. At that time my once-round, shapeless body had transformed, deflating around my waist and inflating around my hips. My breasts grew full, my behind lifted and swelled, and my thighs remained thick, but suddenly curved the way Momma’s did in the pictures I saw of her before she had me.
My friend Shonda had a Halloween house party that year. A group of about ten of us eighth graders was in her basement after all of us, too old for trick-or-treating, sat around eating the candy we had just collected going door-to-door in homemade costumes anyway. It had grown dark outside; the half-hidden sun no longer sent light through the basement well windows. Shonda liked it that way; she wanted it to feel like we were in a dimly lit nightclub like the ones we saw in the movies and on television. Some of the latest R&B slow jams played from the radio. Some of us hummed along to the songs, and a few coupled up and started slow dancing, shamelessly grinding hip to hip in front of everybody. A fresh song by Boyz II Men came on and Dante, a fourteen-year-old high school freshman I had known since we were young kids, asked me to dance.
Dante wasn’t fly. He was hardly even cute with his oblong, stretched head that matched his straight and lean body. His arms easily wrapped around my waist, bringing me close; his body settled into the tenderness of the flesh of my hips and thighs.
“You lookin’ good lately, Sugar,” he whispered. His breath smelled of a chocolate and peanut candy bar.
“Thank you.” I giggled. His hand moved up and down my spine.
“‘I’ll make love to you,’” he sang along with Nate, Wayna, Shawn, and Michael. “‘If you want me to.’”
“I like this song,” I told him suggestively. I had never been touched by a boy and even though I didn’t love the way his body felt pressed into mine, Shonda had told me how good some of the boys made her feel when they laid on top of her. I questioned if I would ever be touched again if I didn’t offer to Dante what I knew Shonda gave to boys.
“You wanna go to the closet?”
I looked toward the corner storage room to which Dante referred. I had never been inside the space, but imagined it to be a filthy, dusty area filled with old, unwanted items that hadn’t yet been delivered to the Goodwill. Still, I eagerly told him yes.
Inside the cramped space, we nestled against a stack of used, down-filled winter coats. I knew what was about to happen and only a few minutes later I learned the moment was not how Shonda had described it. I hadn’t experienced sparkles like she said she did. I had only felt pain and even if there hadn’t been any discomfort, I hadn’t liked the way Dante moved inside my body. I would forever remember my first sexual experience as unfulfilled and confusing. I was left with a cramped neck, stiffness in my hips, and no desire to allow another man inside of me. I had my clothes back on and was out of Shonda’s house before Dante had a chance to ask me for another forgettable encounter.
Back at home in my room, I turned on my stereo and pumped up the volume to Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth,” a jam everyone had bumped in their cars and portable CD players that summer. Not only did we love the song for her innocent, whisper-like voice, but because Chicago’s own R. Kelly had his hand in bringing her music to the world. I sang with her, louder and more powerful than her soft-spoken melody. Leaned against my wall with my eyes shut tight, I belted the words from somewhere so deep within I almost hadn’t recognized the sound that came from my mouth. The energy was like a steady push upward, under my diaphragm and ribs, a rush that forced its way from the
depths inside of me as if it had been waiting years to exit and reveal its power. The surge was intense, the stirring I felt ecstatic. I sang song after song until I became exhausted from the exertion of both physical and emotional energy. As soon as I collapsed on my bed, Momma opened my door, her eyes red and shiny with tears. She held me in her arms.
“It’s all right, baby girl, it’s all right.”
I didn’t have to tell her I just had sex for the first time, she knew. My momma’s instincts had always been keen. When I was younger and had snuck cookies or potato chips to bed at night, I’d be just about to munch on my first bite when she’d enter the room, snatch the snack out of my hand, and walk out of the room without a word. Then there was the time when I had tried to hide a bad test grade from her. See, my momma made me show her my homework every day and each Tuesday I would have a new math quiz to give her. I failed one test in the sixth grade and, ashamed, I folded the red-marked paper into a small square and hid it in the corner pocket of my backpack. When Momma asked about Tuesday’s quiz, I told her Ms. Johnson hadn’t been at school that day and the substitute didn’t know we took quizzes on Tuesday. My eyes must have shifted or watered slightly, or Momma just knew better. Calmly, she asked for my backpack. Shuffling my feet against the worn brown carpeting throughout our house, I walked to my bedroom and retrieved the backpack. She went right to the zipped pocket and got my quiz. I stopped trying to fool Momma after that.
“Come on, take a bath,” she instructed, and led me to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet while I rested in the warm water. She had even sprinkled in her special bath salts, the ones she used after long shifts on her feet at the hotel where she was a member of the housekeeping crew.
“I can’t imagine tonight was a good night, not the way you came in singing like a cheatin’ preacher’s wife.”
She asked for details, which I shared with her.
“Wash real good around there.” She pointed to my young womanly parts. “We don’t need none of that boy’s little men trying to swim around your sea. I hope it’s not too late.” She put her hands together, closed her eyes, and looked like she said a silent prayer to God. “After this, watch yourself, Sugar. You’re not a little girl anymore; you’re a woman now. Men can tell once you’ve given it up to somebody, makes them think it’s easier for them to get to you now, you hear? No daughter of mine is about to be prancin’ up and down these streets with a fat belly. I’m not trying to bottle-feed any grandbabies at thirty-two. So if you want birth control, we’ll get birth control. But that don’t protect from everything.”
I lowered myself farther under the water and blew bubbles while Momma watched. Finally, I told her, “I don’t need birth control, I don’t want to do it again. I didn’t like it.”
She chuckled. “Child, that’s every woman’s story ’til the next boy or man comes along and whispers something good in her ear. You have learn that not everybody is worthy of that special part of you. Even when he’s telling you he’s going to love you forever and can’t nobody love you like he can, you make him prove it first.”
I heard her words and tucked them deep inside to that same place where the fire had been sparked just a short time before. My feelings about boys and men were just as strong as the spirit behind my newfound passion. I equally despised one and loved the other.
“I want to sing,” I told Momma.
“I heard you, Sugar. I haven’t heard a voice like yours since the great Chaka Khan. It’s strong. Brought me to tears. If you want to sing, I’ll help you sing.”
And just like that, Momma did. I sang at every neighborhood backyard barbecue. I sang for the women in the beauty shop where she got her hair done. Momma scoured newspapers and asked friends about any and every talent show in the Chicago area. Even though I wanted to sing music of younger stars like TLC, SWV, and Brandy, Momma told me my voice was too robust for their simple lyrics and style. She taught me the songs of some of her favorite artists like Stephanie Mills, Aretha Franklin, and Roberta Flack. She was convinced I could also sing the greats of Stevie Wonder, Donny Hathaway, and Luther Vandross.
Over the next six years, I focused on nothing other than singing and schoolwork. On weekends, I sang at weddings, birthday, and anniversary parties, and even opened for a few local performers before their concerts. Dante and every boy who approached me after performances were granted nothing more than a “thanks, but no thanks” to their offers to take me out. Music and singing had become the greatest love of my life next to Momma. Then I met Dani.
Dani waited for me at the side of the small stage where I had just performed “I’ll Always Love You” by Taylor Dayne at her cousin’s wedding. She held her hand to me and guided me down three steps to the floor. “Beautiful song by a beautiful lady,” she complimented me.
At nineteen, I had matured to a tall five feet nine inches, a curvy mini diva in the making. I had never been and still wasn’t a slim girl. Around that time people told me I reminded them of a hot, new full-figured singer named Jill Scott who had just hit the scene. My face remained full, though I had mastered the art of makeup and skillfully highlighted or contoured my cheekbones, forehead, and chin to minimize their fullness, and I dramatically emphasized my almond eyes and soft lips with color. My breasts, desirable at size FF, were perched high and were on constant display in low-cut tops. My waist curved with the assistance of lightweight girdles and accentuated my rounded waist and healthy thighs. I wasn’t fat; I was sexy. Everyone told me so and no one could tell me otherwise. Momma had no issue with me using my sensuality to attract an audience; it kept the gigs coming. She was proud that I had such focus and determination and hadn’t let Dante or any other salivating man deter me from my goal of becoming a famous singer.
“Thank you,” I told Dani.
She was tall with an athletic build, short hair, and a remarkable smile. I recognized her as a talented former high school basketball star with promise at a Big Ten university. She had, however, gotten into trouble after getting caught smoking weed the summer before she was to leave for her freshman year. From what I heard, the university was willing to let the first slip slide, but after a second under-the-influence encounter with her recruiter, Dani’s scholarship slid right from under her basketball-playing feet.
“Dani,” she told me.
“Yes, I know,” I responded.
“I told my cousin you were best singer Chicago has.”
Silently I agreed. “You’ve heard me sing before?”
“Who hasn’t? You’ve seen me play before?”
“Who hasn’t?”
We both laughed. A second later Momma was at my side with my purse.
“Time to go, Sugar.” She eyeballed Dani from her tapered haircut, shirt, and tie, down to her flat shoes. Dani was the opposite of everything I represented with me in my glamorous weave, spectacular makeup, fitted dress, and high heels.
“Hello,” Dani said to Momma and extended her hand.
Momma took it graciously, never one to shun a fan, though the handshake was short, abruptly cut off when it seemed Dani was prepared to kiss the back of Momma’s hand. She turned to me. “I’ll be in the car. See you in one minute,” she emphasized.
“I see where you get your fire,” Dani acknowledged after Momma walked away.
“She means no harm; she’s just looking out for me.”
“You ever let anyone else look out for you?”
I had already learned to seduce through music and singing. It was easy to manipulate a fan into believing he was my chosen one with a wink or blown kiss while I sang a love song in his direction. It was all innocent to me and shame on them for taking it seriously when the song was over. With Dani there was no music and still the song inside me stirred. I took a step closer and flirted with a woman for the first time.
“You look out for me, I’ll look out for you,” I cooed in her ear.
“Bet that,” she said.
“Cool.” I adjusted my purse from my hand to the bend of
my arm. “Good to know you’re watching my back.” I winked at her and walked away. I felt her eyes against my backside during my stroll out of the hall to the exit door. I felt an excitement in my chest and between my legs that I hadn’t experienced before. Momma sensed it.
“We’ve worked hard at building up your name for you to tear it down dealing with folks like that.”
“Folks like what, Momma?”
“You know who I’m talking about, child. Them girls.”
“What if I like ‘them girls’?” I challenged, unsure if I did or didn’t, only knowing I had ignored all sexual yearnings and cravings while developing my career and suddenly I wanted to release my desires.
“You got to understand how this world works. People will praise you one day and scorn you the next. I didn’t say nothing was wrong with women on women, but that’s private. That’s grown-people, shut-the-door kinda business, you feel me? You’ve been a good girl all these years. I ain’t mad at you for finding interest somewhere. I was wondering when it was going to happen. But if that’s where it’s at, be smart and keep it quiet. Matter of fact, let me handle it.”
The next day Dani picked me up in her Buick LeSabre.
“No smoking and no drinking, Miss Thing,” Momma instructed Dani, aware of Dani’s drug history.
“I gave it up, ma’am. Learned my lesson. No worries, I’ll take care of your daughter just fine.”
“You better, she’s precious.” Momma watched us drive away from the living room window with her arms folded across her chest.
“Your moms is something else,” Dani told me as we headed down Seventy-ninth Street. “According to her we can’t go anywhere except back to my apartment. Is that cool with you?”
It may have been immoral for Momma to send me off to sleep with a woman. She would know that by the time I returned home that night I would have experienced my “second first”; my second time having sex, my first time with a woman. But that was Momma’s way of looking out for me. If I was going to do it, I would do with her knowledge and with her blessing and control.
