Captain Save a Hoe

by iiKane

  As soon as the door shut, Denise looked at Georgie and commented, “Michael’s…changed.”

  “Yeah, I know right. Just don’t tell my mother,” Georgie replied, knowing that telling Denise not to gossip was tantamount to telling her not to breathe.

  Any more talking was smothered as they devoured each other’s tongues and tore off each other’s clothes as Georgie backed her down the hall. They left a trail of discarded garments—her shoe, his shirt, her bra, his sneakers—so that by the time they reached the bed, they were only wearing their pants.

  Georgie dumped her on the bed, greedily sucking and squeezing her breasts.

  “Ohh, I missed you, baby,” she cooed, her pussy on fire.

  “I missed you,” Georgie replied, sitting up and pulling her jeans down.

  She lifted her ass so that he could pull her pants off. As soon as they were off, he dropped his. Denise cocked open her cinnamon thighs, grabbed Georgie’s dick with both hands and guided it into her throbbing pussy.

  “Ohhhh yessssss,” she screamed as soon as he was inside of her.

  With her head thrown back and her mouth wide open, she looked like a fiend getting her fix, as if the drug pumping through her veins was from the pleasure pumping in and out of her pussy.

  “Give me more, Baby, deeper, go deeper,” she urged frantically.

  Georgie slung her legs over his shoulders and began fucking her like his dick was a pile driver, trying to drive her into the mattress.

  Denise grabbed the headboard, just to have something to grip, as Georgie pounded her mercilessly. Since he had just finished sexing Anya for the second time, his round three could be the fast, furious punishment that Denise was loving—every stroke of it.

  “Oh baby, this dick is so good! I love youuuu!” she cooed, as her pussy spasmed then flooded the covers.

  Georgie kept pounding, urging himself until he came deep inside of her.

  “Whew!” Denise breathed, with a languished, “freshly-fucked” smile on her face. “Let me find out you really did miss me.”

  “You too sexy to forget,” Georgie responded, caressing her face as he gazed into her eyes.

  Denise draped her arms over his shoulders and arched her legs high up on his hips, rubbing them back and forth.

  “So…tell me who she is,” Denise requested, a curiously neutral expression on her face.

  He looked at her.

  “Who?”

  A knowing smile crept across Denise’s face.

  “The woman you smell like.”

  Georgie was never about lying to women; he just hated hurting them.

  “Anya.”

  Even though deep down Denise wanted to cry, she was old enough to expect it.

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  Georgie knew better than to comment. Denise caressed his cheek, studying his face.

  “Georgie Porgie…you have a beautiful heart, but no one woman will ever be enough, and you don’t have enough respect for a woman’s feelings to lie,” Denise surmised.

  Georgie’s brow furled with confusion.

  “How is a lie respect?”

  “Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a lie,” she chuckled, and he could feel her pussy contract with the gesture. “It’s never the lie…it’s the reason for it.”

  Georgie’s expression said that he still didn’t understand. Denise pulled his face down and kissed him gently.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll understand when it matters. As for me…I’m not about to let your young ass drive me crazy,” she laughed and he smiled. “But I do want to thank you for making me beautiful again.”

  “You never stopped.”

  “Well, let’s just say you got my juices flowing again… Now, come here and give me something to remember you by.”

  “I like it…It could definitely work,” Michelle nodded, thinking about what Georgie had just told her.

  They were sitting on the couch when Georgie broke it all down.

  “There’s more.”

  “Well?”

  “I need to use your column,” Georgie answered.

  “Meaning?” Michelle questioned, one eyebrow raised.

  “I just want you to talk about the expo in the next day’s paper. Nothing major: who was there, what they were doing and who is Giorgio, you know?” Georgie explained.

  “You mean, create the mystique.”

  “Yeah, that,”

  Michelle nodded.

  “I can do that, but--”

  “Everything after but is bullshit,” Georgie quipped.

  Michelle snickered.

  “Okay, however…I need you to do something for me.”

  Georgie shook his head, knowing what was coming. “Yeah, ‘chelle.”

  “In the event this brilliant plan doesn’t work, you have to go and get your cosmetologist’s license.”

  Georgie stuck out his hand without hesitation.

  “Deal.”

  On the day of the expo, Georgie rented a limo. He knew that first impressions were everything. He stood in the full-length mirror, admiring his reflection. He was exhausted. He had done a marathon styling session, head after head until all twenty blurred together. He just hoped that his hard work paid off.

  “Hey sexy, what’s your name?” Anya flirted, sliding beside him and looking into his eyes in the reflection.

  He had touched her frosted sherbet look up, giving her a sharper edge up with side burns that ice picked at her jaw line.

  “Georgie.”

  “I thought you didn’t speak English?” Anya quipped, playfully.

  They laughed.

  “How do I look?”

  “Delicious,” she winked.

  But she didn’t need to tell him that. He already knew it. He had to admit, Yvette was definitely a talented designer. She had made him a black-on-black silk suit, the only contrast being the blood red accents and his red gator slipons. She topped off the ensemble with a red silk cape, with holes for his arms to slip through. He wore his long hair loose, which—along with the shades—hid his eyes from view.

  When Michelle saw him, she called Yvette over and asked, “Why you got my nephew looking like Dracula?”

  Georgie couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Now see, only a bitch with no sense of style would say something so crass as that. Trust me Georgie, this look will totally work with this crowd. Michelle, run along and do your little type writing thing you do elsewhere,” Yvette huffed, then strutted off.

  Everyone who could fit rode in the limo. The unlucky rest rode in cabs. When they got there, all the women spread out, all armed with a fresh ‘do’ and fifty business cards to leave lying around. The females, mostly prostitutes and transvestites, all came through for Georgie, and it was a gesture that he would never forget.

  Everyone else had gotten out of the car, leaving Georgie and Anya a few minutes before they were to make their entrance. He sat back, looking out the window at the people moving to and fro, acting as if he wasn’t aware of Anya looking at him intently trying to figure him out.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

  Georgie smiled to himself, because he knew where the question was coming from. He returned her gaze, only his was from behind shades, and replied, “I think we’re all bad people, doing the best we can. I don’t believe badness deserves pity, or justification, or excuses; but I do believe everybody’s badness should have a shoulder to lean on. Now, you ready to go?”

  A hint of a smirk played across her lips, then her expression went neutral. When he opened the door and waited for her to get out first, she paused at the door, looked at him and said, “I should’ve never let you do my hair…because now I can’t get you out of it.”

  Inside, the place was packed. The Jacob Javits Center is a cavernous building; its Lower Exhibition Hall—the smaller of two, where the expo was held—was 250,000 square feet and could easily hold 20,000 people and the exhibits dedicated to their inter
ests. In many ways, the hair show resembled a carnival. Women walked around with elaborate, colorful hairdos, some towering enormously high in the air. There were many booths, some for hair care products, other for specific stylists giving out free makeovers, others giving touchups, and some providing nail care.

  Georgie had been to the hair show in Philly many times, but it definitely paled in comparison. Everything about this place screamed, “Only in New York.”

  When they first walked in, nothing more than his flamboyant outfit and exotic good looks drew curious glances and lustful stares. As the day wore on, however, and his team worked the room, interest in his presence began to mount and build upon itself.

  “Oh my God, your hair is beautiful!”

  “Giorgio!”

  “Have you heard of Giorgio? No? Oh my, where have you been?!”

  Comments like these were heard throughout the expo -sprinklings, like seeds sown to be watered by curiosity.

  “Is that him?

  “Where?”

  “He’s here?!”

  And then, like the echo in a vacuous valley, the name “Giorgio” began to ring out.

  “Are you Giorgio?”

  The more he didn’t answer, the more they asked, just like he had anticipated. They would smile graciously and shake his outstretched hands as Anya strutted beside him, tortoise shell glasses perched on her nose and a small leather-bound appointment book and pen in her hand.

  “Please, Giorgio, may I have a word with you?” one man asked, who owned a string of salons in Connecticut.

  “I’m sorry, but Giorgio doesn’t speak English,” Anya answered, and they kept it moving, leaving the man befuddled in their wake.

  A rail-thin Cuban woman, who had just put out a line of hair care products, approached holding out her hand.

  “Hello, Giorgio, it’s nice to meet you,” she cooed in Spanish, with a flirtatious smile.

  Georgie bent and kissed her hand.

  “I’m sorry, but Giorgio doesn’t speak Spanish,” Anya informed her.

  “But…”

  They moved on.

  A raven-haired woman with olive skin and beautiful, gypsy eyes approached them and spoke in a language that Anya couldn’t recognize.

  “I’m sorry, but whatever language that is, Giorgio doesn’t speak that either.”

  “Well, what language does he speak?” someone asked, exasperatedly.

  Anya smiled graciously and replied, “Giorgio…speaks with his hands.”

  The line reverberated through the building with feverish repetition, attracting the energy of the crowd and bestowing upon Georgie a rock-star like status, punctuating the event. He took pictures with various people, while Anya scribbled down appointments furiously in the book. All the women couldn’t wait to have their hair done by the man who “spoke with his hands.”

  As the camera flashes went off, Georgie glanced over at Anya. She had her head down, writing in the book. The distant look of concentration on her face gave her beauty a studious air that she wore extraordinarily well. She glanced up and the smile that graced her face said that she knew he had been watching her, but it was the look of pride he received that swelled his chest.

  Twok!

  The bubbly surged out of the bottle and ran over Georgie’s fist as he gripped the neck and filled his and Anya’s flutes to the top.

  “You…” she started to say, but he put his hand with the champagne on it to her mouth, and she slurped it off. “You’re only supposed to fill a champagne glass half way.”

  He looked at the label then shrugged.

  “For eight hundred dollars, I should be able to fill up a tub!”

  They clinked glasses and toasted to success.

  You did it,” she remarked.

  “Naw boo, we did it,” he corrected and leaned towards her.

  She thought he would kiss her, but he licked the corner of her mouth.

  “You had some on your lip, and this cost too much to waste.”

  She giggled.

  “So silly.”

  “Really though, I wanna thank you. You looked real professional with your library frames. Made me wanna fuck you on a stack of books,” he cracked.

  “Oh yeah?” she replied, eyebrow raised, mischievously.

  Georgie sat his glass down and took her hand.

  “Believe me Anya, this is just the beginning. Just give me a chance to be your dream weaver.”

  Anya slowly pulled her hand back and sat her glass down next to his. He could tell from her expression that she was about to object.

  “Listen…” he began, but she rose up, leaned over and straddled his lap.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes. “I thought you only spoke with your hands.”

  Georgie knew she was using her seduction to silence him, but her kiss was too sweet to resist…

  Who is Giorgio?

  Those were the words that ended Michelle’s article in the next day’s Village Voice. The name of her column was “Cliché Corner,” a play on the fact that it was a gossip column, so to “cliché” was ironically to be the talk of the town.

  After the expo and the appearance of the column, Georgie was certainly the talk of the town in the hair circles. For the next two weeks, Georgie had appointments with women from all walks of life: foreign females from the U.N., old rich White women, the wives of city leaders, entertainers and top shelf gangster bitches. His name tasted like wine on their lips, and some of the talk was even about his styling prowess.

  The money came in, fast and furiously, and Georgie kept up appearances by always arriving in a stretch limo to every appointment. In the midst of the madness, he even got a call from Christophe.

  “I love it! I love it! Bravo, my Georgie, or should I say Giorgio?” Christophe remarked, saying the name in a deep and breathy voice.

  Georgie was riding in the back of a limo, on the way home. He held his Nokia mobile phone to his ear, laughing.

  “I told you I wasn’t about to be a fashion busboy,” he reminded him.

  “And I never doubted you; I simply had to play by the rules. Although you’ve found a way to change them,” Christophe remarked.

  “Still wanna send me to Jersey?” Georgie quipped.

  “No, but I do want to offer you a job. Wait, don’t bother, I already know that the answer is no. I just had to try. Besides, I can still say that I gave you your first big break in New York, because your secret’s safe with me. Kiss, kiss!”

  The bed was covered with stacks of money. Georgie and Anya sat on either side counting it.

  “Five, six, seven…fifty,” Anya concluded, putting the last stack aside.

  Georgie wrote down the total.

  “So that’s…eighteen thousand, four hundred. Not bad for a few weeks, huh?”

  “I’m proud of you, Georgie. You deserve it.”

  He smiled.

  “A coupla more months and we’ll have enough for our own salon. But our place gonna be different; not only are we gonna do hair, but we gonna sell shoes too!”

  Anya giggled.

  “Shoes? At a salon?”

  “Hell yeah, think about it. New ‘do, new attitude, and you see a fierce pair of shoes, too? Tell me you won’t buy ‘em.” Georgie challenged her, his mouth twisted with disbelief.

  “Probably. Sounds good. I’m sure it’ll be great, and I’ll be your first customer,” Anya winked, leaned over to give him a quick peck, and then got up.

  “Customer?” he echoed, following her movements. “You my partner.”

  Anya shook her head as she grabbed a dress out of the closet.

  “Georgie, don’t start, okay?”

  He got up and approached her.

  “Start what? Ma, look at that. We made that in two weeks! Niggas go to jail for makin’ that much in two weeks! We’re on the verge of somethin’ big here!” he exclaimed.

  “No Georgie, you’re on the verge of something big. You, not me. It’s time I get back to real life, my
life, okay?” she said, sending an aggravated sigh.

  She walked toward the bathroom, dress and wig in hand.

  “Where you goin’, Anya?”

  “To work,” she spat over her shoulder, seconds before she slammed the bathroom door.

  Georgie went to turn the knob, but it was locked. That was the worst part. He heard the shower come on and he began to pace the floor, running his hands through his hair.

  What was wrong with her? Here he had all this money on the bed and a plan to get more, and she wanted to go back to the streets and… He shook his head because he didn’t even want to think past the “and.” Couldn’t she see that he was doing this for her, just as much as he was doing this for himself? Sure, it was his dream, but some dreams are big enough for two, big enough for life, big enough for love… He couldn’t stomach the fact that she would rather give herself to anybody, instead of giving herself to somebody. Him. Home.

  He heard the shower cut off. Ten minutes later, she walked out, transformed…disguised. She had on a fire red spandex dress that hugged her every curve—barely concealing the fact that she didn’t have panties on—and a long, black straight wig that hung down to her ass. She was the first to look away as she crossed the room and stepped into her see-through, fuck-me pumps.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Georgie said softly.

  “Do what? Live my life?! What do you want from me?” Anya barked, eyes blazing.

  “I just wanna make you happy, Anya.”

  She snorted with derision.

  “Oh, you think you can make me happy? Just waltz your young ass into my life, wave your little magic wand and just create Anya as happy, huh?” she laughed, mockingly. “How you know I’m not happy? How you know this doesn’t make me happy? Maybe I like fuckin’. Can’t you tell? How you know I ain’t happy, Georgie?”

  “Because I see it in your eyes,” he replied, simply.

  She remembered the moment that they saw one another on the strip, the way he looked at her, the way he saw her and hated the fact that he did so easily.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” she blazed. “Well, you don’t! You don’t know shit, okay?! Just stay the fuck away from me; stay the fuck out of my life!”