My hands found the counter edge.
The laminate pressed back.
The night pressed in.
And more fear surged through me.
What am I going to do?
Chapter twenty-one
The Blow Job Class
Teyonah
I could smell the citrus cleaner before I pushed open the glass door—Ro’s sex positive clinic always gleamed like money and a confession: velvet-cushioned chairs in a perfect circle, soft lamps, a long table lined with champagne flutes and tidy rows of lube packets, flavored condoms, and silicone dildos in every shade laid out like a candy buffet.
A digital board glowed behind the front table. On the front was written in neat font, “Blow Job Basics: Relaxation, Rhythm, and Breathwork.”
Our BJ professor, Star stood in black slacks and a crisp white blouse.
“Eh, y’all! We’re in the back row,” Ro called, already waving us over like a woman hosting church and a roast at the same time. Her locs were piled high. Her gold hoops gleamed, and her mouth was already in a wicked grin.
Cadence walked beside me in full librarian mode—cool mouth, black glasses, neat bun, straight spine, and sensible cardigan.
My stomach did a slow roll that had nothing to do with nervousness for the blow job class and everything to do with the bastard in my house who wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.
Forget about that for now. You’re here to support Ro. Not dwell on your problems.
I smiled at Star as we headed by and got in the back row. I remembered how Ro had raved last month about hiring her.
Star wasn’t just some random instructor—she’d beenthat girlfor years. High-end, high-priced, the kind of sex worker corporate men and rich celebrities bragged about but never admitted paying for. She had gotten herself out of that life before it swallowed her whole, trading champagne-slick hotel rooms for graduate seminars and community halls.
Now Star spoke at rallies, wrote op-eds, and fought for rights most politicians didn’t even want to name out loud.
Ro said Star always pointed out the hypocrisy: sex industry jobs where women succeeded—sex work, stripping, modeling, and even influencing—were the first to get dragged as “less than,” while men could build empires off the same hunger and never get shamed.
Looking at Star now, poised and unshaken, I thought she carried all of that into the room. Calm, clinical, almost maternal. A woman who’d seen the worst of desire and decided to teach us how to enjoy and control it without shame.
“These classes are booked out,” Ro had bragged to me on the phone. “Star is an absolute pro. There’s hundreds of Five-star Yelps and one woman tagged “Hot Grandma” said the blow job class saved her marriage of fifty years.”
Tonight looked the same: sold out and buzzing, Black women of every age and body size, laughing with their mouths and their shoulders at once, the way we laugh when we’re just barely keeping it together yet determined to have some fun.
Four shirtless men moved silently throughout the room like well-trained waiters from some sinful dream—broad chests gleaming under the soft lights, black tuxedo pants cut sharp against their hips. They weren’t part of Star’s curriculum, just Ro’s flair for drama:Class Helperswhose only job was to keep our glasses full.
One handed me a champagne flute and another to Cadence.
Next, we got to our seats.
Ro took her glass and then sat in the seat right next to us. “Okay. Quick. Pre-class gossip. Go.”
“Well. . .I’ve got some drama.” Cadence tipped her glass but didn’t drink. “I’m banninghim.”
Ro blinked. “Who?”
“That biker.” Cadence’s mouth compressed. “Dirty blonde. Six-five. Muscular. Keeps turning picture books in late and won’t pay his dues. I’m done. I’m flagging his account and banning him from borrowing anything else.”
Oh shit.
