Lickin' License Page 2

  “Here she go again,” Candy mumbled to Leah. They had seen Chanel and Rich go at it regularly. Rich once had his eyes on her until she and Rich’s friend Chase got drunk and woke up in each other’s arms after a night of sex.

  Rich spun around in his chair and faced Chanel with a smile. “The lovely Ms. Chanel. You sure look good, girl. I ain't even gon' lie.” He shook his head. “But not good enough for me.”

  Chanel gave him the finger. “You wish you could have this.” She shifted her butt toward him.

  “Just tell me how much,” Rich said. “A Gucci bag? Louie? No, no, no, no. You big time. Hermes Birkin bag, right?”

  Chanel pinched her tight jeans. “You can't afford what's in these True Religions.”

  “No, no, no, no, baby. You got it all wrong. Rich don't pay for pussy. I need to know what it's gonna cost me to get you off my dick?”

  “No, he didn't,” Leah whispered.

  “Yes he did,” Candy said.

  “Fuck you, Rich!” Chanel spat, turning around.

  Almost on cue, Meisha returned and began prepping Rich. She loosened his braids and shampooed his hair, as more customers entered the shop. Within 10 minutes, all the chairs were full. The flat screen TVs at each end of the shop were on and Mary J. Blige was crooning through the sound system.

  At one o'clock, the ladies went out to lunch, and then returned 45 minutes later. The ladies were seated in the shop joking about Rich and Chanel.

  “Chanel, look me in the eyes and tell me you don't wanna fuck Rich,” Meisha said.

  Chanel spun around, stared into Meisha's doe eyes and calmly replied, “No, I don't wanna fuck—” She burst into laughter before completing her sentence.

  “I knew it,” Meisha said, biting down on her bottom lip. “It's okay, girl. I know how it feel. When I be doing his hair, sometimes I just wanna jump on him and take the dick.”

  “He's so picky with who he mess with,” Chanel said. “Conceited bastard.”

  “Just like you,” Leah added.

  “That's why y'all will never get together,” Candy interjected. “You looking for somebody to drink your bath water and he looking for somebody to hold his dick when he piss.”

  Chanel jumped from her seat and began posing in front of a mirror. She held one of her breasts. “D-cups, all natural.” She ran her hands through her long curls. “Real hair.” She pointed at her hazel eyes. “No contacts.” She shifted her hips. “And I got ass for days. Not conceited, I just know for a fact that Chanel Dennison is the shit.”

  “Candy's right, though,” said Leah.

  “Come on, Leah. I know you're not buying that bullshit. Not

  from Candy, anyway,” Chanel said. “She get more pussy than Rich.”

  Candy laughed. “Now you know I didn't always have my lickin’ license.” Everyone in the shop knew Candy had once dated some of the most notorious guys in Harlem. One hustler, Dez, had run in the same circles with Rich until he was murdered five years earlier at a dice game on 135th Street. Candy had always liked women, but never acted on her desires until after Dez's death. People speculated whether Dez's lesbian sister Sheena had turned Candy out, but Candy denied it.

  “All right, Candy,” Chanel said. “We know you used to get up under a dick, but you been out the loop for a minute.”

  “I still know you and Rich will never work.”

  The women continued talking, but had changed the topic by the time clients began trickling in. Meisha was busy removing tracks from a woman's hair and Chanel was twisting another woman's curly 'fro. Leah was plugging in a curling iron and Candy was shampooing a client's hair.

  Leah glanced at one of the TVs and noticed President Obama was speaking. “Y'all think Barack ever cheated on Michelle?” she asked.

  “Hell, yeah!” Chanel blurted.

  “Only one thing can stop a man from cheating,” said the middle-aged woman in Leah's chair.

  “What's that?” Leah asked.

  “Attica.”

  The ladies erupted in laughter.

  “You put Barack behind bars,” the woman continued, “and he'll be faithful, because Michelle is the only woman that can come on them trailer visits. My sister was married to a man in prison. Only faithful man she ever had. You know they only let them jailbirds go on them conjugal visits with their wives. A trailer will slow Barack up. His ass cheat just like the rest of these trifling men out here. Think he ain't got him a black Monica Lewinsky, if you want.”

  “That's right,” said Chanel. “God designed man's body for cheating.”

  “What?” Meisha was puzzled.

  “The clothing designers too,” Chanel said. “See, a man can unzip his pants, slip his dick through his boxers into your mouth, bust a nut, zip up his pants and be out the door in less than five minutes.”

  “She right,” another woman said.

  “It takes me damn near five minutes to pull down my pants and my panties,” Chanel continued. “Then at least another twenty minutes to cum. And that's only if the brother knows how to work his tongue right. By the time I'm dressed and out the door, we talking thirty minutes easy. In that time, my man done had his dick sucked by at least four more hos.”

  “She's got a point,” said the woman in Meisha's chair.

  “Come on, now. Y' all know Leah just got engaged,” Candy said. “She don't need us making her second guess her future husband.”

  “I'm fine, Candy. Anything is possible, but I don't base my life on possibilities,” Leah said.

  Chanel sucked her teeth. “Shit, we ain't talking 'bout possibilities. A man's dick turning up where it don't belong is a fact of life.”

  The women talked about infidelity for a little while longer, until Candy switched the conversation to her idea for opening a hair care business. Everyone in the shop vowed to support her if she did. They felt developing hair care products was a natural progression from owning a hair salon.

  Clients began trickling out of the shop. Others with appointments, who had been waiting, took their seats. The cycle of exiting and entering clients replayed a few times. Then, a slim bohemian-looking sister with a large black and brown curly 'fro stepped inside. The young woman sported beaded bracelets that wrapped her neck and wrists. She donned a long denim skirt and a plaid button up shirt that fell below her waist. It was loose fitting, but there was a shapely petite frame that could be seen beneath it.

  Candy had been watching every move of the unfamiliar woman since she entered the shop. She is so sexy, Candy thought. She wondered whose client the woman was.

  “Excuse me,” the light-complexioned woman said in a gentle tone. “I'm looking for Candy.”

  “Sookie sookie. PYT alert,” Chanel mumbled with a smile.

  Candy saw the same serious look on Leah’s face that followed Vera’s exit earlier.

  Candy's client was just sitting down. “Go ahead,” she said in her thick Spanish accent. “Speak to her. I'll be waiting.”

  Candy stepped over to the sexy young woman with the angelic glow. There was innocence about her that Candy was not used to. “I'm Candice Johnson, but everybody calls me Candy.”

  The woman shook Candy's hand. “I'm Vanessa. Vanessa Denay. I read your help wanted ad on Craig’s list.”

  “So you're interested in the job?”

  Vanessa smiled. “Yes. I've been doing hair for six years.”

  “Hold on.” Candy looked at her watch. “We run a tight

  schedule around here. Appointments only. That means I have to tend to my client.” She rolled her eyes toward the Latina in her chair.

  “I can come back later if you'd like.”

  “We close at eight.”

  “I'll be back at seven-thirty.”

  “Perfect.” Candy shook Vanessa's hand again and fantasized about her body in the nude, as she walked off.

  “Snap out of it,” Leah said. “You're lusting already.”

  Candy snapped out of her daze.

  “That heifer is at it again,�
�� Chanel said. “One clit just ain't enough, huh?”

  “Me and Vera got a understanding.” Candy giggled. “Nah, she's just interested in the job.”

  “Oh yeah?” Leah sighed.

  “Look like you interested in putting in some work too,” Chanel said.

  “She is hot.” Candy licked her lips. “Slim, but sexy.”

  “Should've never got her started, Chanel,” the woman in Chanel's chair said.

  “For real,” Meisha sucked her teeth.

  Candy said, “Y'all sit around here complaining about men all day. Y'all need to quit bitchin' and start lickin'.”

  “You know that's a sin?” Meisha said.

  “Having some fool beat your pussy up until it's sore and you don't even cum, that's a sin. Or some inexperienced asshole scrapping his fangs against your clit like he Jeffrey Dahmer, that's a sin for sure,” Candy snapped.

  “It's nasty,” Meisha said.

  Chanel turned to Candy. “The shit just ain't natural.”

  “And you fucking every hustler in Brooklyn with a BMW is?” Candy laughed. “Get off the pulpit with the bullshit.”

  “You know you gonna burn in hell, right?” Meisha asked.

  “Go on,” Candy said. “Tell me what hell feel like. 'Cause these trifling ass men you mess with been putting your ass through hell for years. Shit, you must be a hell expert.”

  “Okay, ladies,” Leah interjected. “It's time to change the channel.”

  Meisha turned to Leah. “Candy know I'm just fucking with her. I don't care who pussy she eat, as long as it ain't mine.”

  “Yeah, Candy,” Chanel said. “You one freaky-ass heifer, but I'll slap the shit out a ho for violating you.” She pulled out a razor. The clicking sound resonated as she pushed it out of the orange plastic casing. “That's that East New York loyalty.”

  Candy smiled. She had been in far more heated debates about her sexuality with the women in the shop. The ladies always ended up agreeing to disagree on certain issues. Candy used to tell herself that she didn't care what people thought or said about her desire for women. But that changed after her family disowned her and the women at the shop became her family. She had never been in a serious relationship with a woman. The intimacy she shared with women was purely sexual, born through shared passion and raw lust. It was the women at the shop who Candy was close to. They were the people she went shopping with, hit clubs with and discussed her personal problems with. Candy did not doubt the love the women at the shop had for her.

  Time drifted by until 7:30. p.m. when Vanessa stepped back into the shop and took a seat. Candy watched the young woman observe what was going on in the shop. After laughing at a few jokes, Leah invited Vanessa into a conversation in progress. Vanessa was reserved, assertive about her views on life and seemed very open to the opinions of others. She told the group that she was a twenty-two-year-old poet and writer who lived in Greenwich Village and was pursuing an MFA online.

  “I'm a pretty liberal thinker and I let people be,” Vanessa told Chanel. “I'm not going to school to be a judge.”

  Candy liked her style almost as much as she liked her sexy body. After the shop was clear, she took Vanessa into her office for a formal interview.

  Vanessa sat on a seat in front of Candy's desk.

  “So why should I hire you?” Candy asked bluntly.

  “Because I'm experienced, I'm dedicated and I can make you a lot of money.” She smiled.

  “Money is definitely a good thing.”

  “They say business is about the bottom line.”

  “You are aware that we work ten-hour shifts? Ten in the morning ’til eight at night. Lunch is from one to two.”

  Vanessa nodded. “I'm aware.”

  “Days off are Tuesdays and Wednesdays. We work weekends, because clients want their hair done on Fridays and Saturdays. On Sundays, we're getting them ready for work on Monday.”

  “Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, fine with me,” Vanessa said.

  “If you want your hair done, it has to be between nine and ten in the morning. I'm always here an hour before we open.”

  “No problem.”

  “Before I decide whether to hire you, I need to see you in action, plus know that you get along with the staff. We're a family here.”

  “That's cool,” Vanessa said.

  “So I need you to bring in five clients, and I'll be observing.” Candy paused, thinking before staring directly into Vanessa's eyes with a serious look. “Under no circumstances will I allow anyone to compromise the reputation of the shop.”

  “Understood.”

  “You gel with the staff and you impress me five times, the job is yours.”

  “That's cool. I have a list of clients.”

  “Six years in the business, you should.” Candy smiled. “One more thing, do you have a problem working with people who are gay?”

  “Not at all,” Vanessa said emphatically. “Virtually every shop I've worked in has had a guy who was gay.”

  “How about lesbians?”

  “I've never worked with one, but it's not a problem.”

  “Good, because I am very much openly gay.” Candy looked for any sign of apprehension, anger, or some other hint signaling a lack of tolerance. There was none. She analyzed Vanessa's demeanor and facial expression in hopes of spotting an indication of some intrigue about girl-on-girl action. Again, there was none. But I can change all that, Candy thought. “So you don't have any hang-ups?”

  “I'm applying for the job of a beautician. I have no aspirations of being a judge,” Vanessa said with a grin.

  “I like that.” Candy stood, shook Vanessa's hand, then handed her a business card. “As soon as you're ready to bring your clients in, e-mail me, call or whatever. I'll arrange a date and we'll see what you're capable of.”

  “Will do.” Vanessa smiled, before stepping off.

  Candy's eyes zoned in on Vanessa's strut. I gotta have her. Candy envisioned Vanessa's legs wrapped around her neck. She imagined what she tasted like, what aroma her slippery insides generated when stimulated.

  Although Vanessa did not know, the job was hers the second she applied for it. Candy knew if she hired Vanessa, she would be one step closer to making her visions a reality and finding out the answers to her erotic questions.

  CHAPTER TWO

  VANESSA

  Vanessa sat in her dining room eating a soy burger and a salad with croutons for lunch. She had been a vegan for two years. It was a health decision spawned by the death of her mother from complications due to high blood pressure. Her father suffering two heart attacks had also helped push Vanessa toward eliminating meat and meat byproducts from her diet.

  Vanessa's father was a wealthy real estate investor who lived on Park Avenue. He owned the building in which she had lived in rent-free since her 18th birthday. He also footed the bill for her education. Her Nissan Altima was a graduation gift from her brother who was a successful marketing executive in California. With her family financing her most expensive possessions, Vanessa had managed to save much of the money she earned as a beautician and writer.

  Dozens of articles and poems had been published in magazines, online and in anthologies with Vanessa's name listed as author. Writing was her passion and way of life. It helped her grow through questioning her thoughts on paper and challenging the things she learned during the research process required for her writings. She also enjoyed being able to create something from nothing. It also provided a vehicle for her to freely express herself without fear of being criticized or judged in person.

  Throughout high school and college, Vanessa never seemed to fit in. It was part of the reason she began taking classes online instead of attending school on campus. Her style of dress, the way she thought and her desire to question norms was something most people she met could not relate to. Her relationships with men were short-lived and her friends were few. Although people were not usually accepting of Vanessa, she always remained open to others. Sh
e had a thirst for learning and she knew she could learn from anyone.

  After Vanessa finished her lunch, she went into her second bedroom, which served as her office. The walls were decorated with a couple of abstract paintings, an African mask and a Chinese astrological chart. Vanessa was a Scorpio who believed her life was guided by the stars.

  She sat behind her desk and sparked lavender-scented incense. She folded her legs in the lotus position and closed her eyes. Breathing in deep, while closing one nostril shut, she started a breathing exercise in which she alternated inhaling and exhaling through each nostril. It was a yoga practice she learned as a freshman in college. After five minutes, her heart rate slowed and her mind was calm.

  Vanessa opened her eyes and turned on her Mac. After the computer screen lit up, she clicked on her playlist of India Arie and then opened the most recent writing she had been working on. It was the manuscript for her first novel, an erotic tale of a young woman who was attracted to powerful men. The men ranged from government officials to drug dealers. The young lady found herself in an intricate maze of street drama and love triangles. The story was semi-autobiographical. Vanessa often fantasized about submitting to the sexual prowess of men who commanded authority. She was intrigued by their dominance in public and yearned to learn if their forceful reign extended to their performance between the sheets. But Vanessa had never attracted a powerful man and she was too afraid to approach one.

  As she began to type, her iPhone rang.

  “What's up, Nessa?” her best friend Mimi greeted her.

  “Nothing. Just started working on this book and I'm listening to some music.”

  “Erykah Badu, Maxwell or Floetry?”

  “India Arie.”

  “Same difference. Girl, you gotta stop this mother earth, incense-burning bullshit, you feel me?” Mimi laughed. “I bet you burning frankincense.”

  “Lavender.”

  “Same shit. You stay cramped up in your crib like a damn monk in a monastery.”

  “My spirit moves me, not the other way around.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You need to come up with a better one liner than that, too. You been running that shit in the ground.”