Double Pleasure, Double Pain

by Nikki Rashan

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; LGBT Lesbian

Synopsis

Twenty-six-year-old Kyla is admittedly a late bloomer. She prefers to remain within the comfort zone of her supportive family, her loyal sweetheart, and her close-knit group of friends. When she returns to the local university for her eighth year as a part-time student, she is surprised by a physical attraction and emotional bond that she forms with Steph, another female classmate. Uncertain and fearful, Kyla must decide whether to continue the now lopsided relationship with her trusting boyfriend of four years, or submit to unfamiliar passions felt toward another woman. Brace yourself for this passionate journey for an answer to the common question, "Who am I?" You'll relate to the comical questions Kyla shares with her friends, connect with her thoughts as she silently questions life's everyday activities, and empathize with her as she struggles with the unknown. Hold on tight, and get ready for the ride of your life.

Release date: October 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Mmmm, that was nice,” I said as I stretched my arms up to touch my brass headboard. I closed my eyes and exhaled, my body calm, satisfied, and tension-free.

“It was all my pleasure,” Jeff said, smiling as he lifted his head from its resting position on my damp thigh. He kissed the wetness on my skin. “And yours too,” he teased.

Then he winked at me. So I winked my sexiest bedroom eye back at him and quickly stuck my tongue out. He laughed a deep baritone chuckle, rolled out of my queen-sized bed, and walked into the attached bathroom.

I rolled over, stuffed my face in the silk pillowcase, and laughed with him. I gently shook my head at myself. I have never been good with words, so sticking my tongue out has a variety of meanings depending upon what Jeff provokes in me at any particular moment. Sometimes it means you’re cute as I watch him coach the boys’ basketball team of his high school alma mater on to victory. Or it means let’s have some fun when I slowly and seductively lick my tongue across my lips while we slow dance to our favorite song. And it even means I love you those times he caresses my thigh under the table while we sit at dinner with our friends. And then of course there are the times it means kiss my ass after Jeff has tweaked my last nerve by leaving the damn toilet seat up again. I’ve tried improving the art of transmitting my feelings and thoughts from my mind to my mouth, but I haven’t mastered the process yet. Somewhere between my brain cells and larynx, there is a lost connection.

Because of this default in my system, I shower my love on Jeff in ways that don’t actually force me to use my quivering vocal cords: spur-of-the moment weekend getaways, surprise gifts, and deep-tissue massages are my specialty. Unfortunately, I can count the number of times I’ve told Jeff I love him on two hands—eight fingers, to be exact. The last time was about two months ago when Jeff amazed me with a pair of Manolo Blahnik heels after he caught me salivating over Carrie’s closet while watching an episode of Sex and the City.

I know how good it feels to hear those cherished three words, so why don’t I tell him more? I don’t know. It’s no question Jeff was the one to utter the L word first. Of course, I remember it like it was yesterday. No girl ever forgets the first time her man professes his love to her. At least she better not; we always have to be able to throw that shit back at them when they start acting like an ass.

Anyway, we had been dating about four months when the moment arrived. Jeff had just secured a job with the city as a civil engineer, so I took him out to dinner to celebrate. Because Chinese is his favorite food, I had taken him to China Port restaurant, whose decor shamed the place and would send any out-of-towner running if unfamiliar with the newspaper-worthy reviews often received. We devoured his meal of choice, egg foo yong and fried rice, when out of nowhere he reached for my hand and squeezed, looking at me like he could see right through me and could feel my heart racing with anticipation.

“Kyla,” he said, clearing his throat and looking directly into my bucked, nervous eyes, “you know I’ve had more than a few relationships in the past. More than I care to admit, actually. But there’s never been anyone who makes me feel like you do. I feel like I’ve known you for so much longer than I have and I knew you had stolen my heart the first time I laid eyes on you. I want you to know that you mean the world to me.” He shifted in his seat. “What I’m trying to say is that I love you, Ky. I really love you.” His skin blushed as he stuttered over the last words.

Oh, I just thought I would melt right there in my cushioned seat. I paused a moment, a little uneasy and unsure if there was a proposal to follow. But even with my hesitation and the extra moment of thought, all I could muster up was a barely audible, “I love you too.” Although I was a little disappointed with my response, you would have thought he had just hit the million-dollar jackpot in Vegas. I swear I saw a tear in his eye.

But that’s the kind of man I have: sensitive, smart, and a good catch, according to everyone I know. First of all, he’s real easy on the eye. So fine even Helen Keller couldn’t help but take notice (I know, that was wrong). My guy is in the six-foot-one-inch range, not too short, not too tall, just right for my five-eight frame. His skin is a caramel complexion that cleared up silky smooth after a bout with acne in middle school. When he showed me pictures from his younger years, I was certain he was playing a joke on me, claiming to be one of the young men from the basketball team in the awkward boyhood to manhood stage. But it wasn’t a joke. Still, I’m sure every young girl that wouldn’t give him any play back in the day would be kicking herself if she were to see his fine ass now.

His eyes are a deep chocolate brown with thick, dark eyelashes and eyebrows you would swear were crafted by celebrity makeup artist Sam Fine. Jeff has a perfect set of soft lips that always feel like lip balm was freshly applied. And he has thick, naturally curly hair that he chooses to wear cropped close to his scalp. A firm and sculpted body completes the package with a perfect six-pack resulting from the hundred and fifty sit-ups he does every night before climbing into bed.

I can’t stop with just his appearance, though. Not only does the man deserve to be on People’s fifty most beautiful list, he’s also educated, thoughtful, charming, and he cracks jokes so corny that you have to laugh out of embarrassment for him. His heart is genuine and he has a strong sense of family.

His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Oldham, have been married for over twenty-eight years and Jeff takes great pride in the longevity of their relationship. For their silver wedding anniversary, he and his brother Kent, a younger but two-inch taller version of Jeff, gave them a marvelous, black-tie celebration. Guests were treated to a slide-show presentation and a program guide filled with pictures of everything from their parents’ individual childhoods to pictures of them caring for their own two boys.

Jeff’s toast to his parents was so touching and heartfelt that there was not a dry eye in the place. I could see every unattached woman in the place panting and licking her lips, ready to devour this sensitive man as her prey. Mind you, we had been dating for only five weeks, and from that moment on, I knew I had found my needle in the haystack. Not to say that a good man is hard to find, but just as Jeff said he had his share of relationships, I had more despite our two-year age gap.

My mother taught me at an early age that boys will be boys and to break their hearts before they could shatter mine. “Better them than you, honey,” she advised. Words I have never forgotten and have lived by ever since. Well, I slipped once and let a cocky, lip-licking, LL Cool J wannabe senior break my heart back in high school. I know it sounds like it may have been puppy love, considering I was just the tender age of fifteen, but it sure didn’t feel like it then. You know how you can admire someone from afar for so long, and when that person finally shows a little attention, you already feel like you’re in love? So was this case. My nose was wide open. He jumped in, took advantage of that fact, and left as quickly as he had come (no pun intended). Those around me may not have known how devastated I was since I didn’t shed a tear. I couldn’t even express my feelings back then. So I sucked it up, never forgot that crushed feeling, and vowed never to let heartache venture in my direction again. For seven years, I wandered in and out of relationships with my eyes half shut and my heart half closed.

This brings me back to Jeff and the four years we’ve spent together. Sometimes I doubt that I deserve the kind of love he gives me: totally unconditional. Especially because I’m not willing to give him that same love in return. I definitely love Jeff more than I have any other man in my previous relationships, but I know that Jeff loves me more than I love him. For some inexplicable reason, I have been unable to fully surrender my heart to him. There has always been something, somewhere, that prohibits me from loving him completely. So, my guard is up, firm and in place, and even Jeff hasn’t broken down the walls to release all the love I have inside.

I’m sure my parents’ divorce has made me leery of commitment and doubtful that love conquers all, like every love song proclaims. For so long my parents seemed to live the perfect life. We had a four-bedroom home in a decent neighborhood, always had two shiny late-model cars in the driveway, never worried about a meal, or whether or not my parents could afford to buy me the latest fashions I craved every fall when school began. Each summer our family would load up the van with our tent, grill, and sleeping bags and take a weekend trip to one of Wisconsin’s favorite family getaways, the Dells, where we would hike and bike ride through the wilderness, spend hours at the water parks, and sing made-up songs around the campfire at night. We felt and looked like the ideal, successful family.

My dad made his way from the mailroom to the corporate offices of one of the major health insurance providers in America. My mother worked as an executive secretary for one of the officers in the same company. Neither of them has ever volunteered the cause of their breakup, but I often wondered if the constant closeness got the best of them. You know, breakfast together in the morning, seeing each other as my father darted in and out of meetings, sharing the after-school chore of transporting their children from cheerleading practice to basketball games, and finally retiring to bed only to wake up and do the shit all over again. Or, maybe it was the fact that my sister had just graduated from high school and since I had finished two years earlier, they felt their job was done. After twenty years of marriage, my parents parted ways.

My sister Yvonne, who picks up the slack for my lack of emotion, took it the hardest. She was fearful of what was going to happen to her future since she was due to attend college out of state the following fall. She fussed and cried and literally threw a temper tantrum when we received the news that our family was no longer going to be “one.” Luckily, our parents decided to tell us over dinner at home and not the restaurant we had faithfully visited every other Friday for as long as I could remember. Trust me, Yvonne would have thrown her hissy fit either way. I, on the other hand, tried to calm their youngest daughter down.

It was a rough summer for all of us. I continued my sales clerk position at the department store that I started working at after I graduated high school. Yvonne completely put her studies on hold and began working as a checkout girl at a grocery store. Six years later, she’s the store manager and hasn’t picked up one college book to date.

I know my parents carry a tremendous amount of guilt for their divorce and continue to try to make unnecessary amends with us. The both of them shower Yvonne and me with gifts and spoil us like little kids at Christmastime. My best friends, Tori and Vanessa, tease me about my lavishly furnished apartment, compliments of my parents, along with the brand-new Toyota Camry they gave me for my twenty-sixth birthday. All while I continue to work part-time (yep, at the same department store) and attend school part-time. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up and I’m taking my slow, sweet time doing so.

Although I had little experience caring for babies beyond playing mom with my dolls as a kid, I initially considered a career in neonatal nursing. But after watching a Nova tape in class and seeing an actual delivery, I quickly cast that thought aside. Being the natural-born klutz I am, I visualized myself taking hold of this innocent newborn creature and just as he or she takes its first breath of life, the slippery little fucker slides out of my gloved hands onto the floor. The doctors, nurses, and parents demand my immediate beheading.

Then I considered majoring in fine arts, focusing on fashion design. But while I could easily put together a DKNY outfit for the mannequin on the floor display of the store, turns out my actual fashion creativity was minimal. So I decided that wasn’t my niche. Then there was mass media communications. “You’d be great in front of the camera,” everyone would always say. Simply not my thing, either. I won’t even go into what happened the first time I had to do an impromptu report on the 2000 presidential election in front of my class last spring. I could tell by the what-in-the-hell-is-she-talking-about look on everyone’s faces, they were trying to figure out if I was following the same Gore-Bush election as they were.

So this fall I’m taking my first course in social welfare. Long ago I settled my prerequisites, so if my ass can decide on a major, I’ll be well on my way to graduating.

Fortunately, I have a patient family, friends who support me, and a guy who loves loving me, degree or no degree. As of right now, I’m content with life. I’m twenty-six years old, in great shape, and have no addictions, except for the occasional face-to-face meeting with my toilet bowl after one too many apple martinis. Overall, most days I feel like nothing could go wrong. Knock on wood.

Tori, Vanessa, and I started our Monday morning off as usual at the Bally gym on the northeast side of downtown Milwaukee. I don’t do the workout thing any other day, but we meet Monday mornings to energize ourselves for what work, school, and life have in store for us over the next seven days. For some reason we believe getting all hot and sweaty and wearing ourselves out on the worst workday of the week is a beneficial thing to do. But it’s more like self-torture; well, at least the shit is for me. Most people know to sleep until the last possible second on this dreaded day, while we choose to get up a whole hour and a half early.

Like so many gyms, the place is a hot spot for those with or without significant others looking for a little bit of body watching. I, myself, am able to tune out the six-four, bench-pressing, tight-short, bulge-protruding men in the place. Takes a little concentration, you know, but I handle it. On the other hand, it’s a perfect place for Tori, whose lusting eye is always on alert.

I had just finished thirty minutes on the treadmill when Tori walked over to me dressed in an outfit more suited for the beach than the gym. Her tattoo of a chocolate-dipped strawberry glistened as sweat rolled down her not-quite-Janet six-pack. She leaned on the treadmill, ass in the air, and struck a pose for the hottie behind her, who tried not to gawk as he worked his biceps.

“Ky, it’s a good thing you didn’t come out with us on Saturday,” Tori said. “Girl, the men in Liquid were scary as hell and I about wanted to die when one of my daddy’s frat brothers tried to talk to me.”

I dried the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand and looked at her in shock.

“What? Your dad’s friend?” That was sick.

“Well, no,” she explained as she switched her weight from one leg to the other, intentionally creating a subtle ass-wiggle, almost causing her admirer to drop his weight and break his toe. “But he was old enough to be my daddy. You know what I’m saying, girl.”

That’s Tori for you. I often have to repeat what she says in the form of a question to clarify what she means. She’s good for exaggerating the truth or implying something was a certain way when it really wasn’t. Then when you confront her, she laughs and says, “Well, that’s not what I really meant.” Yes, she’s one of those embellishing people but you have to love her. Tori has more personality and charisma than anyone I know.

“Okay, so what happened?” I asked, feeling better that it wasn’t really her daddy’s friend that was eyeballing her.

“Well, I’m out on the floor shakin’ my ass all by myself because you know I got it like that. Plus, it lets all the men know that I’m available. Right? So here comes Joe Cool steppin’ in my direction with his curly gray hair and flashing his yellow dentures and shit. Girl, he must have been at least fifty! He comes up rubbing his hands together and licking his lips like he’s about to eat a damn piece of fried chicken. I turned around and started dancing with the wall, hoping his ass would get a clue. Next thing you know, I felt his hands on my hips and felt his hot-ass breath on my neck. He leaned into my ear and told me I looked like a fudge popsicle and he couldn’t wait to lick me up and down.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Especially with the wide-eyed expression of disbelief on her face as she told me the story.

“So I turned around and looked him dead in his bloodshot . . .