by Nikki Rashan
That afternoon Dani introduced me to my body. She showed me every place I hadn’t known appreciated a kiss, a caress, a lick, and a squeeze. Dani was aggressive in her lovemaking, though patient with me, and seemed to delight in knowing I was a virgin to the experience she granted me.
Between bites to my thighs and sucks to my middle she told me, “I know why your moms named you Sugar.” She licked deliciously. “You taste just like it.”
Wednesdays were my least booked nights, so Momma scheduled my visits with Dani for those midweek evenings. For about six months I learned the talent of making love from Dani. I surrendered to her strength, she to my passion. We couldn’t get enough of each other until one Wednesday morning Momma came to my bedroom to tell me I wouldn’t be seeing Dani again.
“Why not?” I questioned. Of course Dani hadn’t dumped me. Not me, not Sugar.
It seemed Dani had given up smoking weed, but had taken on the job of selling it instead. She had been arrested the night before and from what Momma learned, Dani would likely get jail time. Even if she didn’t, Momma said my days with Dani had to cease.
“You’re blowing up, Sugar. We can’t let Dani blow out your fire. This could have been a bad situation and I’m sad to realize I could have messed things up for you. We have to be smarter. I need some help. Somebody to be my eyes when I can’t see.”
“You’re always in control. I never thought I would ever hear you say something like that,” I told Momma.
“Me either. But I can only do so much.”
Momma still worked at the hotel and had become an assistant manager over the housekeeping staff. She booked my gigs on breaks and in between work hours, and when she couldn’t attend an event with me, she sent my Aunt Jeanie as my guide.
“Let me figure something out,” Momma said. “Until then, let’s stay focused on your singing, hear me?”
With that said, for over a year I set aside my desires once again. The summer of 2002 I turned twenty-one and Momma threw me a grand party at the Ritz-Carlton downtown. The ballroom was filled with every local celebrity of Chicago, a few national B-list recording artists, and anyone with a name attached to the music industry. The crowd was rich and arrogant, and I devoured and digested every compliment I received. My head swelled.
The highlight moment of the evening was on me as the lights went down and the spotlight landed on my table. Momma handed me a microphone just as the music to Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” started. I worked the crowd, walking from table to table belting out the lyrics better than Whitney Houston ever did. At least that’s what I told myself and based on the crowd’s response I believed it.
Toward the end of the night Momma was engaged in conversation with a well-dressed woman who exuded elegance in a soft masculine style. Like most of the people at the party, she oozed confidence, but from across the room I saw that she had what no one else in the room had been able to get: Momma’s undivided attention. They stood close, the woman speaking pleasing words to Momma. I knew this because of Momma’s soft expression, unlike the hardened look she gave snaky folks who tried to feed her bullshit. Several minutes later they began to walk toward me. For some reason my heartbeat quickened. The woman, dressed in a tailored white suit that fit every angle of her body perfectly, met my gaze fearlessly. She wasn’t a knee-knocking fan seeking an autograph and she wasn’t a celebrity herself. She was business. And she possessed something else, too. I saw it in her eyes.
“Sugar, this is Ace. Ace, Sugar,” Momma introduced us. “I’d like the three of us to talk. We have a meeting tomorrow at noon.”
Ace extended her hand to me and then held mine in both of hers. She didn’t let go.
“I look forward to tomorrow.” When she spoke, she smiled, her lips widening like a ballet dancer’s grand jeté jump: graceful, fascinating, and beautiful.
“I as well,” I responded.
Momma eyed me intently. Ace released my hand with a nod of her head, turned from us, and exited the ballroom, apparently satisfied that she accomplished what she had come for: she had a meeting with me.
Chapter 2
Sugarcoated Lie
“Back up off me, Franco,” I growled through a mastered fake smile as Franco and I posed on the red carpet at an awards dinner devoted to honoring leaders in the Chicago community. I was a 2013 recipient for the hours of service I contributed to a local nonprofit organization by providing free vocal lessons and coaching to girls and boys ranging from ages twelve to seventeen. The program was in its third year and we had a waiting list of kids wanting to be taught by me.
When Ace first brought the idea to my attention, I questioned why I would want to spend my time and energy on young kids with hopeless dreams of superstardom. I mean, if I, Sugar, who was once described as “the voice that’s been missing from music” hadn’t yet sold millions of records around the world, what made these young kids think they had a chance? Don’t get me wrong, my singing career had been one to envy and one that only a few achieved.
When Momma and I met with Ace the day after my twenty-first birthday, we had signed a manager-and-client contract by the end of the day. Ace took over the lead of my singing career, but consulted with Momma on most aspects. They both would then advise me. The one thing Ace didn’t seek Momma’s input on was her personal intentions with me. And I didn’t need Momma’s consultation on that either. I knew I wanted Ace from the second she pulled out my chair for me at the fancy brunch inside the Ritz-Carlton that morning.
She had reserved a private table where we could talk business. We sat next to one another, Momma opposite us. Ace talked smooth, but not fast. She wasn’t a slick-talking salesperson, and still we quickly realized she understood the business and had contacts throughout the music industry. She warned us that we would face challenges on the road to superstardom, and would cross many who didn’t have my best interests at heart, but instead their own intentions at the forefront. It would be her job to weed those folks out. She had then turned and leaned toward me and told me, “I’ll take care of you.” We started sleeping together a week later. She had been my private lover for eleven years.
Momma didn’t disapprove; she was happy I had somebody in my life. However, about a minute after she learned of our love affair, she summoned a meeting with me and Ace to discuss how we would handle our relationship in the public eye. I was young with a promising career ahead of me and falling in love at the same time. My joy overflowed I was prepared to share all of me with the world, which included the fact that I was in love with a woman. Ace and Momma aggressively disagreed. They protested my willingness to out myself as a lesbian singer, and asked that I name famous singers and musicians who were openly gay. There were few relevant R&B singers I could list, recalling that even the obvious celebrity lesbians remained hushed and in the closet about their private lives. I conceded, eager to boost my career to its ultimate level, and finally I agreed with Momma and Ace that everyone needed to know my name for my singing talents, not because I was gay.
For years, I dodged questions during interviews about who I shared my love life with, and insisted my sole focus was my career and I had no time for dating. When people would approach me, Ace, or Momma about achieving the honor of taking me out on a date, we shared the same story: I had no room in my schedule to date anyone. No one knew Ace was my boo and I was hers.
I was mesmerized by Ace. She fascinated me with her business savvy. Sometimes I would sit in her office pretending to sit quietly on the couch writing song lyrics when really all I wanted to do was listen to her business calls and be in her presence. I was Ace’s primary client, as I should have been. Her focus was on making me the “next greatest of all time,” she said. Ace secured backup singing gigs for me with some of America’s top recording R&B artists. Within five years I had been to nearly every state in the country and my passport had more stamps than a young Chicago child could imagine he or she would ever have. In every show in which I sang backup, I was generally granted a t
wo-minute solo while the headliner went backstage for a wardrobe change. I would take that opportunity to step front stage and create a memorable experience for the thousands of people for whom we performed. I wasn’t born to be a background singer so in those spotlight moments I would shame the headliner with my vocal skills, bringing about applause just as loud, if not louder, than that for the headliner. It was only a matter of time before I finally recorded my first single.
It was 2008 when I recorded “He’s the One,” a sultry track about a woman declaring her place in her man’s life. The message of the song was to let all the women after her man know that she was his woman. The song was a local hit and even though I sang about a man, I had written the lyrics myself based on my relationship with Ace. Thing was, everyone on the outside thought someone else was the love of my life. When, actually, behind closed doors Ace gave me all the love I needed.
When we traveled together, we always booked two rooms, usually adjoining. After the release of the single, we were in Indianapolis for a performance at the Black Expo that July. Ace’s assistant had been unable to secure adjoining rooms and instead we were booked on separate floors in the hotel. Ace spent the night in my room and the following morning we ordered room service almost two hours before I had a scheduled interview in my suite with a local journalist. After breakfast, Ace prepared to leave to go shower and dress in her room. The plan was she would meet me back in my suite for the interview. Daringly, we shared a kiss that lingered even once Ace opened the door of my room. As she backed out of the doorway, we finally parted.
“Oh, can you set the tray outside?” I asked quickly, and dashed back inside to retrieve it.
Just as I handed her the tray, topped with empty plates and glasses for two, the journalist arrived at the door. He was a short, curious man, a well-known music critic in the city. The right side of his mouth smirked upward as he caught Ace dressed in the slacks she wore to last night’s show, her blouse barely buttoned and her blazer hanging casually over her forearm. Moreover, there I stood in my bathrobe. Ace set the tray on the floor outside the door, then closed the door in my face, leaving her to deal with the journalist.
A part of me panicked, another part felt relief. Finally! Maybe Ace and I would be able to reveal what we meant to one another. I had grown weary of denying my love for her and couldn’t understand why she had continued to hide the love she had for me. Whenever I pressed her about coming out, she had shut the conversation down by telling me the time wasn’t right. I didn’t understand anymore. Didn’t she realize how many people would love to have claimed me as their own? Didn’t she know that there were many who begged for the opportunity to drape me on their arm? She didn’t know many people wished I would sing love songs into their ear every night like the ones I did to her?
Ace called five minutes after she left my room to inform me that the interview would no longer take place in my suite, but instead in one of the small conference rooms near the hotel lobby. She told the journalist that I had been ill the previous night with possible food poisoning, and because I had been ferociously throwing up, she stayed with me overnight. The story was weak and phony and I doubted the journalist bought it. But I had no doubt that Ace shared it in such a manner that convinced the journalist that despite whatever he thought he saw, he didn’t see. The interview was a breeze and the write-up he published was phenomenal.
After that incident, Ace suggested we hire a front man, someone to pose as the newfound love of my life to deflect any questions that might surface about my continued singlehood and lack of a special person in my life. I was angry with her, insulted that she continued to only love me privately. I was also frustrated that she felt my fan base would vanish if they knew I loved another woman. How could she feel that way when so many of my fans were gay themselves? Still she insisted I have a fake boyfriend in my life and shortly after that’s when Franco entered the picture.
Franco was the closeted boyfriend of Derek, a longtime friend of Ace’s. Franco and Derek had been an invisible couple for over ten years, with Franco frightened to come out of the closet because of his family’s religious background and affiliations. From what I learned, he had front women of his own from time to time, women he would occasionally bring to church or to a family Christmas gathering in order to deceive his family by pretending to be straight.
His partner, Derek, a shy and quiet engineer, was complacent with the arrangement. I heard that they both were shocked to learn that Ace and I were in a relationship, with Franco excited to share some of my limelight.
The announcement of our relationship arrived when Franco accompanied me to a show in Cleveland about two months after my close call with Ace. I brought Franco onstage just before the end of the show, serenaded him with a love song, and introduced him to the audience as my baby. Five years later, he was still “my man.”
“Girl, you know you like when I feel on your booty,” he teased through a smile at the camera and lowered his hand below my waist. He swiftly ran his palm over my full behind. Franco, more than I, reveled in his role in our fictional relationship, and played it up in front of the cameras whenever he could. We both continued to smile and pose until we reached the end of the red carpet. He grabbed my hand and led me inside the ballroom.
Ace and Momma were already seated at our table in front of the stage. Ace recognized the tension in my expression, which tended to reveal itself more and more whenever Franco and I had to make an appearance. Almost every piece of my life was perfect: I was an amazing singer with a fan base that reached around the world. Although I hadn’t been an overnight sensation like an American Idol winner, I had earned my status the old-fashioned way by working hard. I was a star with a career that was still growing and yet the biggest part of me was a secret. I was tired of it and mad at Ace for encouraging the façade.
After I was presented with my award, I began my acceptance speech. “I’m honored to help young ladies like Maria,” I said. Maria, one of my students in the program, sat at our table that evening. I had grown to love all my young novices, or gems, as I called them. They worshipped me and I owed them some affection in return for their loyalty. “I’m grateful for the chance to help our Chicago youth fulfill their dreams,” I continued. “If it weren’t for my mother and all she sacrificed for me, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I’m happy to return the favor.”
I paused and directed my attention to my table. “Momma, thank you. Thank you for all that you are in my life and for honoring my dreams like they were your own. Franco, you’re an unbelievable man with an enormous heart. Thank you for allowing me inside.” I looked to Ace. “I can’t leave the stage without a deep thanks to my manager, Ace. Words can barely express how fortunate I am to have you guide my career. Not only are you an advocate for this program, you endorse me in all that I am. I pray that you and I continue this amazing partnership so we can show the world that with dedication and commitment, a person really can have it all. I love you.”
The room erupted in applause when I wiped a tear from my eye. Ace, Momma, and Franco played it cool and clapped along. When I returned to the table I hugged Maria, and then wrapped my arms around Momma in a tight embrace. Ace stood and gently hugged me, careful not to press her body close to mine. “I’ll meet you in your limo when this is over,” she whispered in my ear, and passed me off to Franco. Arrogantly, he placed his hands at my waist and when I leaned in to offer him my cheek, which was our agreed-upon signature public display of affection, he instead reached for my chin and brought my face and mouth to his lips. For the first time in five years, he kissed my lips, and he did so in front of a room of hundreds of onlookers. My automatic response was to pull back. But I didn’t. I took Franco’s unexpected act of aggressiveness and used it against Ace. She was, after all, the one who put us together. I kissed Franco back and the slight waver of his lips showed that even he was surprised. We ended the kiss with a big smack and smiles. I settled back into my seat between Ace and Franco and took a sip
of wine.
Using my peripheral vision I saw Ace’s eyes scold me, both for my speech and for the kiss with Franco. Her tan skin flushed, the heat from her body warm next to me. I didn’t even look at her. Maybe Franco’s surprise gimmick was just what she needed to finally realize she wasn’t the only one who wanted my sweet sugar kisses.
Chapter 3
Give Me Some Sugar
“Get out,” Ace instructed Franco when she got inside my limo. We had driven only two blocks before the limo pulled over to the side of the road and parked. Ace’s limo had been following mine.
“What?” he asked with a fake perplexed expression.
“I’ll deal with you later,” Ace responded, not answering his question, her voice aggravated.
“Can I get in your limo? How am I supposed to get home?” he wanted to know.
“Call a cab. Or call Derek, your man, remember?” she asked with emphasis on “your man.”
“Yeah, yeah, girl, I know I got a man. Y’all have a good night now.” Franco got out of the limo and straightened his suit and tie before closing the door. Ace then instructed the driver to head to her address.
I tried to pretend like I hadn’t heard their exchange. I was engrossed with my phone and my Twitter account. I was a Twitter fanatic and utilized the tool to connect with my fans. Ace encouraged it and said any celebrity who didn’t take advantage of the easy access and communication with their fans didn’t really want to be famous. She made sure I tweeted at least once if not multiple times a day. I had just tweeted a message: Sugar @SugarChitown My gems, I love you all!
“What was that about?” she questioned.
I put my phone down, pulled out my MAC compact, and dabbed my nose with powder. “What are you referring to?”
“Your speech. Beautiful, but risky, Sugar, and you know it.”
