The Runaway - Ima's Musings

Some of you know that I am working on my first novel; it is genre fiction, a mystery/thriller. One of the ways I am preparing this story is to develop character studies for each of the main characters. For the next several weeks, I will introduce you to the people talking and yammering inside my head. I welcome any thoughts you have as you meet each person.

Here's the premise of the novel:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Ima’s Musings

Hi, I’m Ima DeCostas. I am 35 years old, single, with no kids and I live and work around Chicago. I’m a lawyer by training, but for the past 5 years, I have worked as a political consultant for various federal, state and local campaigns. I’ve been working for the Obamas for the past two years.

Don’t be impressed. This job is a lot of work. Barack and Michelle are dedicated workaholics. They work hard and expect nothing less of the people around them. I don’t think I even know what a 10 hour work day looks like anymore.

I’m not complaining. I love my job, I love my career.

It’s the rest of my life that sucks.

I was raised, if you can call it that, by my mother; I don’t even know who my father is; mom refuses to talk about him or my creation. She remained bitter about him though throughout my childhood. She let a lot of her anger towards him spill over to me. She says I’m his spitting image.

Well, let’s see. I’m a mocha chocolate sista, about 5’9”, it’s not your business how much I weigh, but I usually wear a size 12, if any of you feel the need to go shopping. I stopped chemically processing my hair years ago. While working, I tame my afro hair into either a low pony or a high afro puff. But, during my time? All restraints are off and the ‘fro is free to ‘do what it do, baby.’ LOL.

I work in politics, so you know my wardrobe is made up of lots of greys, blacks, and creams. But at work, I prefer bold jewel tones; purple is my color of choice to reflect my internal royal badness!

I sometimes find myself walking down the streets looking at tall dark skin older men and wondering if THIS is the one, my father. All chances of getting my mother to open up are pretty much lost now. I’ve just put her in an assisted living facility due to early Alzeimer’s. Half the time, she doesn’t even recognize me as her daughter; although truth to be told, this is kinda the way it’s always been. My father’s abandonment broke something in her that she was never able to fix.

Ok, I know that I said my life sucked outside of work. Well, that’s not the complete truth. There are parts of it that are more than satisfying.

I like sex.

No, scratch that. I love sex. I want to do it all the time, in all the ways humanly possible. The problem I’m having is trying to figure out how to have lots of sex all the time, without having a man around. I know that sounds weird but I don’t really know what to do with a man once the orgasm has passed.

See, I love sex and, as tends to happen when you do something you love doing and do it often enough, you become pretty good at it. So, I don’t suffer for a lack of partners. I’m good at sex, I’m terrible at relationships.

I used to think how nice it would be if I were attracted to women. I figured I might have a better chance at finding companionship and compatibility. I was even looking at women on the street or at work trying to drum up some semblance of attraction that I feel when I look at men.

While attending an art gallery opening once, a woman approached me and complemented me on my outfit and then engaged me in conversation. It took me a minute but I finally figured out that she was hitting on me. I was a little taken off guard by the long extended eye contact and light touches on my hand and arms. She was gorgeous; a small woman with an oval face and smooth porcelain skin. Her eyes took over her entire face and put one in the mind of a precocious child. However, all resemblances to a child ended once your eyes travelled along the contours of her well rounded body.

She invited me out for a drink as we were leaving the gallery. Let’s see, I think her name was Noemi. At that point, I was curious enough to wonder where this could go. We walked a couple blocks from the gallery to an upscale bar/restaurant that catered to the nouveaux riche crowd. While at the bar, she flirted with me, complimented and admired me. Once I relaxed I actually experienced a sexual charge when she ‘accidently’ brushed the back of her hand across my breast.

At one point, I got up to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and she offered to accompany me. On the surface, this suggestion was no different that countless other times when I’ve had been out with female acquaintances; women go to public bathrooms in pack. I don’t know why, but we just do. So, on the surface, there was nothing significant about her offer. But I knew, from the way her look caressed me and the way her mouth communicated the pleasures of the universe, that this encounter was likely to be a little different from the others.

Once inside, she did not give me any opportunity to retreat or to think. She locked the door behind us, turned and pulled me into an embrace. Her lips were soft and full and increasingly insistent, demanding a response from me. Her hands hungrily tugged my hair, pulling me closer and closer to her. She rose up on her toes to ground her pelvis in to mine.

I have to admit, I pushed back. For just a brief moment, it seemed that here, this tiny woman would finally be able to give me the release that I had sought in the arms of countless men. She pushed me against the wall and then shoved her hands under my skirt. She pushed aside my panties and lightly caressed me.

I went cold.

She was just as beautiful, passionate and sexy as ever, but the feel of her tiny hands on my girl was like a splash of cold water. They were too soft and smooth, without calluses; no roughness. Where was that ‘man’ scent that I was familiar with? C’mon ladies, some of you know what I’m talking about. That scent that your man has, that’s different for every man, but also vastly different from any woman. Where was the hardness? The truth is, the chill had actually started when I ground my hips into hers and failed to find that familiar pole that calls to me so often.

She was none too happy with me when I pulled back and explained that I had changed my mind. How do you explain to someone who has still your wetness on their fingers that you don’t want them? That they don’t have what you needed after all?

So, I’m not a lesbian, I thought about it. But, my life is increasingly empty now; I find myself longing for intimacy, a connection. It’s funny that I long for something I’ve never had, not even during my childhood.

And then I met Tyler. We saw each other and there was an instant connection. Despite frequent attempts on my part, it was several weeks before we were even sexually intimate. He talked about how much he enjoyed talking to me; and we seemed to have so much in common; he told me that he also worked in politics.

When he wasn’t taking up my actual time, he took my concentration away so much that people even started commenting on it at work. I was distracted all the time.

But something is going wrong now. It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen him and when I call, he only has a few words for me. He seems so distant and cold. I’ve gone over and over in my mind what I could have done to offend him, but. . . nothing.

I’m telling you all this personal information because I really don’t have anyone else to talk to. I don’t have any girlfriends and all of my relationships with men have been all sexual, so there’s no help there either.

So, can anyone offer any advice on what I can do?