"Tell me, E. Why do you put so much importance on sex?"
I look at the woman in front of me as if she needs to go to a psychiatric hospital.
"Because it's fan-fucking-tastic when its done right," I say vehemently.
"But who can do it better than yourself?"
I raise my eyebrow, and then sigh. Of course, she is right. This is the real world, and I'm not going to find any mind blowing Christian Grey sex, because even if its out there, I'm just not lucky enough to find it without every STD known to man finding me first.
"Don't worry, child. I've been there, too," she says while smiling at me.
Mrs Diana Dennis, one of the lecturers at the University of the West Indies is at the moment, my only mentor. She lectured me in my first year, but I just never stopped following her around like a lost puppy.
And now, in two weeks, I'll be graduating with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Drama.
"I think you should grow up. Stop frolicking around and go back to work," she says in a mock stern voice.
"Yes, ma'am" I say in a imitation of the American accent, with a salute.
"Seriously though; go back to work, and talk to that friend of yours," she says with nothing short of maternal worry in her eyes.
I can't say no to her when she does that.
"Yes, Diana."
***
"Bae!" I hear from the other side of the store as soon as I enter. It's a hell of a thing to hear at 9 am on a Monday.
I smile and reply, "Rozii."
Yes, that is her name, correct spelling and all; her personality is just as exotic.
But Rozii never misses anything; she assesses me with shrewd eyes, and I can see the words forming in her mind before she says them.
"Bae? How yuh look suh? A wah do yuh?"
I sigh. "Nothing."
A knowing smile plays on her lips, but she holds her tongue.
Now, working in one of the most advanced body modification stores in Jamaica has its advantages, one being that business is never slow.
It actually started out as a piercing and tattoo store with just Roz and I, but in Jamaica, you realize things. You realize that if someone is blacker than ten minutes past midnight, tattoos will never work with them.
Even white tattoos, when healed completely, are about two millimetres below the skin, so it looks like a black plastic bag over faded whiteout. Worse, they turn yellow when exposed to too much sunlight.
So we, in partnership with Roz's crazy ass boyfriend, Chris, decided to explore a new brand of body modification: branding.
After we completed our apprenticeship, he was our first victim. It took four hours and he cried like a bitch.
And now, people of all shades come to get their flesh burned by yours truly.
Anyway, the abundance of people means that I will be thoroughly distracted today.
***
It's 3 pm and I don't even feel tired.
I feel radiant. I'm beginning to realize how much I need this shop. This is my home, and when I'm not here, I get myself into all manner of shit. Currently, I glance up from my watch to look into the face of a grown ass man who is doing his damn best not to cry.
"You have less than an inch of skin left to go," I say through my mask.
"Okay."
I heat the strip of metal with the blowtorch once more, and pressed it to his skin. The sound of popping fills my ears, and I smell the smell of burning skin that I have long grown accustomed to. I talk to him about trivial things, like his family, and marijuana farm in Westmoreland, in an attempt to distract and relax him.
As I finish up with the star design on his shoulder, the bell above the door rings signaling that someone has entered the store; I always hear Rozii's obnoxiously loud voice bidding people goodbye as they walk out. I walk Roy, the man who I've been burning for the past 45 minutes, to the cashier.
Rozii pulls me aside with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I know that look. It's the look that she gave me when I realized that she only booked one room for myself and Gio, my then man crush, at Riu. It's the look that says, I've got something up my sleeve, little girl.
I do NOT like that look.
"Someone wants a piercing."
"Okay..." I don't get it, because it's my job. So what?
And then, I look up.
Oh, shit.
This is, undoubtedly, the most attractive Homo sapienthat I have ever seen. Shit. Shit house hole.
"Hello," he says in a sensual voice, his lips seeming to move in a dance with each other.
Everything is sinful and enigmatic about him. From the way he holds himself, to the way his Sister's Locks shift with his every move, looking like they're begging to be pulled, to the way his almond shaped eyes laugh independently of his face, to the way his skin almost seems to glow.
His skin reminds me of this black wooden wardrobe that I had as a child. It had a matted finish, and was silk to the touch; it seemed indestructible, because after twenty years, it's still at my parents' house looking the same.
Idly, I wonder what would happen to his skin if I were to run my nails down his back while he—
"I want a Prince Albert piercing."
No.
NO!
"Okay. Follow me."
***
I'm sitting in a chair in one of the rooms reserved for private body modifications nervous as hell, while the guy about to get his dick pierced had a lazy smirk on his face as he unbuckled his belt.
Why does this feel so wrong?
Because you want to fuck him.
I don't like this. When dealing with clients, I'm always professional. I never feel so... So horny for anyone. Even if they're sinfully attractive, and sometimes, they are, I get into this zone when I work. I'm unshakable.
And then he just whips it out.
I don't want to look down; it will destroy me.
But it is inevitable; and when I do, I can feel myself creaming.
It's just so... Beautiful.
And there I go with the staring again.
"Are you done staring?"
"I'm thinking of what to do; everyone's body is different," I lied quickly.
His buddy is different. Somewhere between seven and eight inches.
Not too tong... Not too short... Just right...
Get it together, Goldie Locks.
He is uncircumcised, which means that it has to be pierced to the side.
"Which side do you want it to?"
He smirks and says, "whichever way you wanna do it."
I can officially feel my nipples hardening, and judging from his heated stare in that direction, he can see it.
"I'm cold," is my lame reply.
He snorts at me.
"I have cold flashes sometimes."
Shut the fuck up. Now.
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear."
I have everything already gathered beside me in a little blue plastic container. I take out take supply's and begin.
The whole thing is extremely awkward for me, what with my pierced, hardened nipples rubbing against the front of my blouse. It doesn't help the awkwardness that his dick keeps twitching. He keeps getting semi hard, and every time he does, we have to stop.
When it is complete, I walk-run him to the register, happy to be over with possibly the most awkward — and arousing — encounter of my life.
Now, we are standing with Rozii at the cashier in utter silence.
"Your total is... Five thousand dollars."
Wow. Our economy has gone to shit.
As he pays quickly, something occurs to me.
"I never got your name."
"I never got yours either."
I chewed my lip, and then said:
"Ezinma. It means 'The future looks good'. It's Nigerian." I don't know why, I just feel like I owed him an explanation.
"I'm Desta," he says, emphasising the first half of the word. "It's Ethiopian."
He goes to leave, but I make the mistake of turning and asking "What does it mean?"
The look he gives me says that he wanted me to ask that question. He was waiting for me to ask that question. That look, combined with that seemingly permanent smirk on his lips was meant to drop panties.
"Pleasure," he says, his voice dripping with promise of exactly that.
And then, he leaves me there, in soaking wet panties, standing dazed with Rozii laughing her ass off behind me.
