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Ugh! The one downside of putting out sex ads on the internet, you never know what you’re going to get. It’s hit or miss. Sometimes you luck up and get exactly what you’re looking for. But most times you get shit even a dog wouldn’t want. Truth be told, there’s a bunch of nasty-ass kooks online. And judging by these emails, I’m already convinced tonight’s going to be a bust. Try to convince myself that it’s a sign that it’s not meant to be, not tonight anyway; maybe not ever again.
My computer dings again. I have three new emails. My mind tells me to delete them without opening them; to log off and shut down my PC. But, of course, I don’t. I open the first email:
5’11”, 255 lbs, trim beard, stache, stocky build, moderately hairy, and aggressive. Always in need to have my dick sucked to the extreme! I love a woman who is into my cum. Show it to me in your mouth and all over your tongue, then go back down on my dick and try to suck out another load.
That’s right up my alley, I think, deleting the note, but not with you. Your ass is too damn fat! I move onto the next email:
6’3”, 190 lbs, 6” cut. Black hair, brown eyes. Here’s a pic of my dick. If you like, hit me back. Before I even open his attachment, I’m already shaking my head, thinking, “no thank you” because of his stats. Don’t get me wrong. I’m by no means a size whore, but let’s face it…a nigga standing at six-three with only a six-inch dick. Hmmph. He better have a ripped body, a thick dick, and be extra damn fine! I click on the attachment, anyway. When it opens, I blink, blink again. Bring my face closer to the screen and squint. I sigh. His dick is as thin as a No. 2 pencil. Poor thing! I feel myself getting depressed for him. Delete! I click on the third email:
Do u really suck a good dick? If so, come over and wrap your lips around my 8-inch dick until I bust off on your face or down in your throat. 29, 6’1, decent build here. Horny as fuck for some mind-blowing head.
I smile. Maybe there’s hope after all, I think, responding back. I type: No, baby, I’m not a good dick sucker. I’m a great one! Send me a pic of your body and dick so that I know your stats are what you say they are. And if I like what I see, maybe you can find out for yourself. Two minutes later, he replies back with an attachment. I open it, letting out a sigh of relief as I type. Beautiful cock! Now when, where, and how can I get at it?
I know, I know, aside from being risky and dangerous, I am aware that what I am doing is dead wrong. No, it’s fucked up! However, I can’t help myself. Okay, damn…maybe I can. But the selfish bitch in me doesn’t want to. I mean, I do try. I’ll go two or three days, even a week—sometimes, two—and I’ll think I’m good; that I’ve kicked this nasty habit. It’s like the minute the clock strikes midnight—the bewitching hour, I become possessed. I turn into a filthy cumslut. In a local park, dark alley, parking lot, public restroom, deserted street in the back of a truck—I want to drop down low and lick, taste, swallow, a thick, creamy nut. Either sucked out or jacked out; drink it from a used condom or a shot glass—I want it to coat my tonsils, and slide down into my throat. Not that I’ve gone to those extremes. Well, not to all those extras. But, I’ve come close enough.
And tonight is no different. Here it is almost one A.M. and I should have my ass in bed. Instead, once again, I’m looking to give some good-ass, sloppy, wet head; lick and suck on some balls; deep throat some dick, gag on it. And maybe swallow a nut. Yes, tonight I’m looking for someone who knows how to throat fuck a greedy, dick-sucking bitch like me. I’m looking for someone who knows how to fuck my mouth as if they were fucking my pussy, deep-stroking that pipe down into my gullet until my eyes start to water.
Ding! He replies back: You can get this cock, now! No games, no BS, just a hot nut going down in your throat. I’m at the Sheraton in Edison. Room 238.
I respond, practically drooling: I’m on my way. Be there in 30 mins.
I get up from my computer desk, slip out of my silk robe, tossing it over onto my American Drew California-king sleigh bed. Standing naked in front of my full-length mirror, I like…no, love, what I see: full, luscious lips; perky, C-cup tits; small, tight waist; firm, plump ass; and smooth, shapely legs. I slip into a hot pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, then grab my black and pink Air Max’s. I pin my hair up, before placing a black Juicy fitted on my head, pulling it down over my face and flipping up the hood of my jacket. I grab my bag and keys, then head down the stairs and out the door to suck down on some cock. I glance at my watch. It’s 2:24 a.m. Hope this nigga’s dick is worth the trip.
TWO
“Girrrrrrrrrrrl,” Felecia draws out while popping her chewing gum as soon as I step through the salon’s door, “ya man has been blowin’ up this line all mornin’ tryna get you. He’s called ten times in the last forty minutes.” She pops her gum again. Click-clack, click-clack.
Felecia is my first cousin, and salon manager. And, although she’s one of the most efficient and dependable women I know, she can also be a bit extra at times. But she means well and she always has my back. Besides, she’s my eyes and ears. She keeps up with all the street news, and shop gossip. And trust me. If there’s any dirt to be dished, she’s going to be the one to serve it up. With her ear to the ground and her BlackBerry Curve attached to her hip, she doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to the goings-on in the hood, or on Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, and BlackPlanet.
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you didn’t have any appointments scheduled until noon so you probably wouldn’t be in until about eleven-thirty or so.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering why the hell he didn’t call me at the house. I glance around the salon, taking in the happenings. For a Wednesday it’s surprisingly packed. Most often, Wednesdays tend to be one of our slowest days for some reason, but not today. I count sixteen clients seated in the reception area; another seven customers are at nail booths getting their nails hooked up by nail technicians. And six clients are sitting under dryers.
I spot my twelve o’clock, Janelle, lounging in one of our lush spa chairs that has an electric-heated massager with brown leather cushioning and whirlpool footbath. She has her shoulder-length hair pinned up in a clip. Janelle’s been one of my most loyal and faithful customers for the last nine years. And it’s taken me almost eight of those years to get her hair together. Because, baby, let me tell you. Girlfriend’s hair was tore up the first time she sat down in my chair. It was all broken off and uneven, and her edges were a hot, scattered, raggedy mess. I had to basically give her a close cropped boy cut and start from scratch. She hemmed and hawed and talked shit but when she started seeing results, she shut her trap and let me do what I know best—hair. Now girlfriend’s mane is to die for. And she comes in faithfully every two weeks to keep it tight, along with her feet and hands. Then every two months she comes in for a waxing. I smile, watching Alicia and Anna—two of my best mani-and-pedicurists, tend to her. Alicia is filing her nails while Anna scrubs her feet.
I watch as another customer takes a seat in one of the other nine spa chairs to get her toes done. Two more customers follow behind Shuwanda—another stylist—to the waxing room, used for those more personal areas, like cleavages, snatches, pits, asses, backs and legs. Women’s eyebrows, mustaches, and beards are usually done at one of our stylists’ stations.
One of the things I love about my salon is that we offer one-stop services. From a wrap and a weave to twists and locks to braids and a rinse and set; from manicures and pedicures to facials, threading and waxing, Nappy No More is here to offer you the very best salon experience. Aside from me, two of my nail technicians and four stylists also have an aesthetician license to do facials and waxing.
“How many appointments do I have for today?” I ask, glancing over at Felecia.
She flips through the schedule book, counts. “Looks like five. Oh, and Greta called. She wanted to know if you could squeeze her in sometime tomorrow. I told her you were booked solid, but she said it was an emergency; something about having a date tomorrow night.”
I shake my head, chuckling. That girl is a damn mess, I think, grabbing the mail. Greta is another longtime client, close friend, and social butterfly extraordinaire, whose hair I’ve been doing since high school. This girl, love her dearly, has more dates than an almanac. Every time you turn around she’s going out on some kind of date. I think for a moment. Let me see. Wanda, she wants an updo; Bianca, wants her ends trimmed; Mona, is getting a hot oil treatment. Lynn, needs a color treatment; Cynthia, w
ants her blunt bob with graduated layers; Knowing Greta she’ll want a Doobie Wrap, which won’t take me too long. I decide to tell Felecia to squeeze her in between Bianca and Mona. “And tell her I said to bring me lunch.”
“Will do. Oh, and one more thing. Erica called. She wants to know if you can see her Friday; apparently she wasn’t happy with her new stylist and wants to come back to you.”
I frown, rolling my eyes. When someone decides to go to another hair salon because they’re not happy here for whatever reason, that’s their prerogative. And I’m okay with that because I want all of our clientele to be completely satisfied. But, when you bounce talking shit about how you’ll never set foot back up these doors, that’s a no-no. You keep your ass right where you are! “Mmmph. So they done jacked up her scalp and now she wants me to fix it.”
“Basically,” Felecia says, shrugging her shoulders.
“Wrong answer. Tell that nappy-headed bitch I don’t need her business.”
