You Make Me Wanna

by Nikki Rashan

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

Synopsis

When Kyla discovered her unexpected attraction to a female friend, she was confused and scared. Her boyfriend was left wondering what happened to their love. Now she's starting all over in Atlanta. Life has taught her to be true to herself, and she has matured into a self-confident, free-spirited woman. She makes an attempt to bandage aching wounds through shallow relationships and empty encounters--that is, until her dream mate arrives and seduces her tender heart to love once again. Can she move forward in a relationship, or will fantasies and invitations from the past lure her back to a time and place she's spent years hiding from, yet can't let go? You Make Me Wanna, the follow-up to Double Pleasure, Double Pain, answers the question readers have been asking: What happened to Kyla?

Release date: March 4, 2014

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

To change and to improve are two different things. This famous proverb blared like trumpet horns in my ears as I awoke this morning. Gently, I shook myself awake and re-familiarized myself with unfocused surroundings. I stretched a kink out of my right shoulder, and accidentally bumped against Angie’s short, curly locks.

Fast asleep in the white T-shirt she wore to the club last night, Angie clutched her pillow like a toddler would a teddy bear. One would never guess this domineering lioness purred like a peacefully sleeping kitten when she laid her head to rest. It was moments like these when I found myself most tempted to succumb to her persistent, yet humble requests to claim me as her own.

On far too many occasions I’d been left with the duty of declining Angie’s sincere desire to scoop me under her wings and care for me like a newborn bird. It’s not that she wasn’t a good catch. Actually, she was one of the most successful women I’d met in the city of Atlanta. She held a master’s in computer technology from Georgia Tech and owned a very successful consulting business.

While some second bedrooms are furnished as guest-rooms or filled with various exercise equipment, Angie’s additional room was the home of AAA Information Technology Services (AAA standing for her initials, Angela Ann Adams). Angie’s office contained every amenity needed to run a business from home. The small space was complete with a large oak wood desk, a flat-screen computer monitor and keyboard, adding machine, file tray, and pencil and penholder filled with every colored pen under the rainbow. Pictures of her parents and baby niece, Lauren, were perched next to her framed diplomas, which proudly sat on her desk, as opposed to hanging on the wall. A fax machine that also served as her printer, scanner, and copier sat next to her desk, as well as a file cabinet with the names, numbers, and work orders of her many clients throughout the metro Atlanta area. Every night her cell phone, her lifeline, was placed in a holding tray on top of the three-foot-high table just inside the room.

Angie was by far one of the most sought-after lesbians in the community, not only for the slammin’ burgundy Lexus GS300 she drove, or the fact that she made well over six figures, but she knew how to treat a woman. An admitted player in her twenties, Angie hung up her pimp hat and tossed her cane aside when she hit thirty, vowing to commit herself toward two main goals in life. The first of establishing herself as an entrepreneur was already achieved. The second was to find an equally motivated and drama-free woman to share the rest of her life with. So why she settled for every-other-week dinners and once-a-month bedtime sessions with me, I still haven’t figured out.

My carefree, non-committal attitude had been apparent since the day I set foot on this Georgia red clay I now called home. I was determined to start fresh, leaving behind the confused, vulnerable, indecisive Kyla I had been for far too many years. I shed my uncomfortable exterior and developed a strong backbone to support my growing wings. My move to Atlanta was to leave the past behind and to begin a new life, focused and determined to live the way I wanted.

I’d be telling the world’s greatest fib if I said I hadn’t dived headfirst and sunk deep into Atlanta’s notorious gay scene. More than once, I found myself caught up in an unexpected, and short-lived, whirlwind romance. In fact, since my arrival seventeen months ago, I’ve had one, two, three . . . well, let’s say, I’ve had a few affairs with women who resembled the confused, secretive Kyla I was when I’d first met Steph, the only woman I’ve ever fallen in love with, and for whom I ultimately left my dedicated fiancé, Jeff.

Though I had always been shy in the company of women in the gym locker room, lesbianism hadn’t been a thought. I didn’t think that feeling awkward around nude women qualified as a hidden fear of being gay. In just the few short months that I had known Steph after our initial meeting in class, her fascinating hazel eyes and alluring charm and personality permanently altered my heterosexual lifestyle, and the longing to be with her settled in the forefront of my mind. Being with her became my greatest wish and greatest fear at the same time.

Fear had delayed my straight versus lesbian inner trial, and by the time the verdict was reached and the gavel had struck, Steph had fallen back in love with her ex-girlfriend, Michelle. Although I was crushed, I couldn’t have been angry with her. I had waited too long to admit my love for her, and during the time of my internal debate, she was given a new opportunity with an old love. I missed my chance and lost her.

“Happily ever after” wasn’t my destiny with Jeff either. I revealed my love for Steph to him even prior to revealing it to her myself. I had informed him, my mother, father, sister Yvonne, and lifelong best friends, Tori and Vanessa, of my newfound revelation while gathered in my mom’s living room on a cold February day back home in Milwaukee. David, my cousin and confidant, was also there for emotional support and to make sure I didn’t shy away from announcing my pivotal awakening.

Jeff’s response was natural; he was hurt and angry. I had still been scared and in shock at the severe fury and aggression he vented at me. Unbeknownst to me, he had already been aware of my feelings for Steph, yet he had enough belief in me that with time, my heart would lead me back to him. On that winter day, he learned that he was wrong.

Nearly a year had passed before we spoke again, and even then our conversation was limited to short and cordial e-mail exchanges.

My mother was dumbfounded and distraught that I opted not to marry the son-in-law of her dreams to pursue a relationship with a woman. In her eyes, I had just made the most horrifying mistake of my life. Although my father was saddened by my decision, the majority of his discontentment derived from worry about me. Although my parents were divorced, I was certain that my father had to spend many days consoling my mom on what her oldest daughter had done. Yvonne was least shaken by my admission, even though she was still stunned that I chose Steph over Jeff.

Tori and Vanessa took opposing positions in response to my announcement. Vanessa attempted to remain a loyal friend, but after her numerous messages went without response, she eventually withdrew, and the calls ceased. On the other hand, Tori was repulsed and outraged that I was attracted to, and in love with, a woman. She hesitated none in letting me know how disgusted she was by way of a slew of insults left on my voice mail. We bumped into each other once before my departure south in which the degradation continued. My twenty-plus-year friendship with both of them dissolved instantly.

Back to my affairs. Sharon, one of the most timid and nervous I had entertained, was a quiet, shy, older woman I met while walking to the front of the congregation to deliver my offering at a church David and I had frequented at least twice a month at his urging. Since our dual move to Atlanta, and after watching me transform from hesitant and inhibited to sexually liberated, he was adamant that I needed God’s supervision for my wanton bedroom behavior.

While I generally enjoyed the sermon and clapped and sang along with the choir, it didn’t take long for me to uncover the inconsistencies and inability of church folk to practice what they preach. I found a wicked pleasure in spying the rows of starstruck women as they sat in exalted admiration for the suited-up, Escalade-driving, womanizing pastor in the pulpit. There they sat squirming in their seats, bodies in heat, with absurdly loopy grins plastered across their faces whenever Mr. Preacher spoke words of enlightenment in their direction. At the height of each sermon, just as I thought he’d collapse in exhaustion after his twentieth run across the platform, he’d point to one of the bedazzled women, nearly igniting her afire with an invisible blaze from his fingertip. She’d jolt from her seat in response, waving her hand in the air, singing songs and praises to God the Savior or to Mr. Preacher; it was hard to tell. But who am I to judge, right?

Anyway, when I smiled and said hello to Sharon, she blushed a rainbow red, giggling an unintelligible response before proceeding in the line ahead of me to deposit her contribution. I noticed the strange manner in which she walked, one foot tripping over the other, and I realized my presence made her nervous. I figured she understood the meaning of the rainbow pendant that hung delicately against my collarbone.

When depositing my envelope into the weaved basket, I closed in on her backside.

“Oops,” she squeaked when she accidentally dropped hers on the floor. On the way up, her eyes focused on my legs, in discreet admiration.

After church, Sharon stood next to my car, waiting for me.

Quietly we rode to my apartment, stripped naked, and fucked all afternoon. I realized I was her first, from the goofy way she sucked my nipples, like a baby would a bottle, and the unskilled way her fingers fumbled between my legs. Why she chose me that particular afternoon, I’ll never know. But by the time I dropped Sharon off, she had learned how to touch my sweetest spots, and I had found her most pleasurable places as well.

However, when I attended services again several weeks later, Sharon sat in the second pew, avoidant of my eye and deep in prayer, apparently repenting for her abominable sin.

On the opposite extreme, there was another set of women I had discovered. These women knew what they wanted, but were unwilling to risk their corporate husbands, 3-ct. wedding rings, Mercedes trucks to haul their two kids in, and the social status they spent years building just for a romp in the sack with a woman. They concealed their hidden passions, unleashing them only when opportunities arose, skillfully maneuvering their schedule to allot for morning, afternoon, or evening escapades. These women had mastered the art of deceit, cleverly disguising a four-hour hotel stay at the Wyndham as an afternoon spent shopping and lunching with friends.

“Here, look what I bought for you,” they’d drawl, flashing a new golf shirt or new Kenneth Cole watch in the direction of their leading man.

Not only would there be no questions asked, he’d likely toss a new gold credit card in their direction as a treat—like a bone to a faithful dog.

My fondest yet scariest memory of entertaining this type of woman was of Charlotte, a stunning minx in her early thirties whose frosted blonde hair and Barbie sea-green eyes (yes, I went there), were complemented by her naturally browned skin under the steamy Georgia sun. She was the perfect Charlize Theron imitation.

Each morning before I went to work, I’d stop at a little cafe nearby for coffee to support the caffeine habit I’d acquired. Charlotte would sashay into the cafe a mere five minutes after I did, leaving her stroller outside and carrying two-year old Edward on her hip. For a woman who had just walked five blocks to drop her older child off to school while traveling with a temperamental two-year old, she always looked pretty damn refreshed and energetic.

Charlotte would smile and say hello while we stood and added cream and sugar to our tall, slender cups. Eventually she advanced the smile and hello by adding a stare. Not a casual stare as if admiring the silk blouse I had on, but a testing stare. One I have since mastered myself. Her eyes would intentionally linger on mine until I finally broke the gaze. When Charlotte advanced to lowering her skim to the chest level, smiling deliciously at my cleavage, I knew what her deal was.

So the next day I purposely arrived early, retrieved my java, and stood outside waiting for her to turn the corner. Only slightly caught off guard, she looked pleased to see me there. With my eyes glued to Charlotte’s nearing frame, I visually stroked every angle of her body, from her Reebok walking shoes, up her slender legs, and around her waist. Her nipples hardened through her white T-shirt as my eyes devoured each breast one at a time. Finally, my eyes met hers, and the always composed, fiercely dominant Charlotte looked as if her knees would give in at any moment.

I smiled deviously as she stopped in front of me to release Edward from the stroller. For a white girl, she was built. She possessed a curvaceous ass, trim muscular legs, a taut, firm belly, and round breasts enhanced by C-cup implants received after Edward was born. Only later I came to learn that her successful plastic surgeon husband had molded her into his idea of flawlessness.

I could practically feel the heat simmering off Charlotte’s body when she passed me and went into the cafe. Satisfied, I left my business card on the stroller and walked to my car.

I had been at work three short hours before a thick-Southern-accented woman responded after I answered my phone.

“Hi, is this Kyla?”

I knew it was her immediately by the high-pitched voice that matched her high energy level. Even though I had been the aggressor in initiating conversation with Charlotte, I quickly learned that she was anything and everything but passive. She called the shots—what she said was how it went.

Our first meeting occurred the following Wednesday. Charlotte invited me to join her for lunch at the Palm restaurant inside Buckhead’s Westin Hotel. She failed to mention that lunch was the appetizer and I was the main course.

To make a long, heated, and spicy story short, Charlotte’s caged hunger for making love to a woman was released, and what followed was an afternoon of vigorous lovemaking. Afternoon dessert became a twice-a-week routine we both anxiously anticipated. Charlotte loved to eat my pussy. She’d suck on my clit and stretch her stiff tongue into me as far as she could. It didn’t matter if I was on my back or sitting on her face, she craved my sweetness, bringing me to climax after climax.

And what I loved about Charlotte was the unabashed excitement she displayed the first time I pulled my favorite Doc Johnson strap-on dildo from my purse one afternoon. She marveled at how real it looked, touching and even tasting it. Charlotte fell into a frenzied state, her eyes fixed on mine, screaming my name as I pumped in and out, fucking her just like her husband would, only better. Like most lesbians who enjoy penetration, she was thrilled by the masculine thrust contrasted against soft, smooth, feminine skin and touching breasts.

Charlotte and I engaged in our affair for about two months before the disapproving comments I received from David, “You reap what you sow,” became too frequent, and riddled me with guilt. While seeing Charlotte quickly became an event I very much looked forward to, inside I knew it was wrong. Even though I had all the freedom in the world to sleep with whomever I chose, Charlotte didn’t. She was committing adultery, and I was her ever-willing accomplice.

Ending the relationship proved more difficult than I anticipated, as Charlotte wasn’t a woman who accepted rejection with ease. It seemed she dialed my work and cell numbers every free waking moment she had. I finally had to threaten to ruin her “happily married” facade by exposing myself as her undercover lover. Soon after, I switched my morning cafe run and never heard from her again.

I wasn’t fazed though. I knew it would only be a matter of time, short time at that, before my newest lover would appear, a previously unknown face in a crowd, whose life would soon intertwine with mine in a lustful fury, even if only for one night.

Which brings me back to my opening statement: To change and to improve are two different things. In my two and a half years post-heterosexual life, I obtained a successful, fulfilling career, and developed into a strong, determined, outgoing woman living in one of the hottest metropolitan cities in the country. I worked hard and diligently, paid all my bills on time, and remained close to my family despite the states that separated us.

On the downside, smoking cigarettes, although not heavily, was a habit I’d picked up when my body hungered for a lunchtime meal I was unable to grab while buried underneath mounds of paperwork. Bed-hopping, my other vice, had become my number one release, to unwind and relieve stress. I was a full-blown lesbian now. And in this short time I’d fulfilled damn near every lesbian fantasy created, though I wasn’t proud of all of them.

Once upon a time I was the committed girlfriend to a wonderful man in a monogamous relationship. And now buried heartbreak and unhealed wounds masked as contentedness had become my day-to-day life as I dined with and then slept with an unimaginable number of women.

But is this the life I’d envisioned for myself? Was my life heading down the path I was destined for? Sure, I had changed. I had grown and I was happy, yet a part of me yearned for the missing link. . .