by Stella
“Fine,” I dismissed her with one word and turned my attention back to the abundance of emails now sitting in the group mailbox.
She gathered her purse, stood, and then turned quickly. Her hair spun around her like a Garnier Nutrisse commercial drawing my stare back to her. “You’re welcome.” And she pranced out of my cube and across the floor to the space she occupied that mirrored my own.
Jasmine and I had been friends for years, but she tried my patience. I adored her, and she meant well, but discussing any of this at work was a big no-no, and she knew it. There was nothing I could do about any of that now; she’d let the cat out of the bag. I could either hope this girl didn’t call and miss out on fattening my bank account, or I could treat her the way I would any other referral. If she weren’t aware of my relationship to Jasmine, then it wouldn’t be traced back here. I could keep my anonymity while still helping a desperate woman in need.
When I stared at the computer screen, watching countless emails disappear and new ones appear, I decided a new endeavor could only help relieve the monotony of what I did here.
“Did you happen to catch that email about the new IT director before it was deleted?” I asked Carl, my cubie.
“No. I didn’t even see it come in. Whoever thought group email addresses was a way to create team morale obviously never had the pleasure of using one.”
“It’s a way for us all to help the team, Carl.” My sarcastic tone reiterated what we’d been told after Miriam Pratt had been bought out by some huge conglomerate. They had come in and wiped out any trace of the employees as individuals—like personal email addresses—in favor of joining us together in teamwork. And cell phones that we were expected to monitor twenty-four-seven to keep our clients happy.
“Whoever the new director is won’t be here any longer than the last guy, so why bother with it? They won’t know your name, only your ad team handle.”
He had a point. Miriam Pratt had once been the most sought-after ad agency in Atlanta, but when it was bought out, Seneca Marketing became the largest advertising firm in the Southeast. With Fortune 500 clients, enormous fast-food chains, and high-end retailers demanding their time, Seneca could do things however they wanted. If we didn’t like our jobs, there were a hundred other people waiting to fill our positions. And there were thirty juniors just like us waiting for account executive positions that no longer became vacant. Five years and counting, and I hadn’t done much more than make copies, answers phones and emails, and run whatever errands the team deemed necessary.
I decided Jasmine was right. At the end of the day, Dr. Fellatio might fly under the radar and people may not know her true identity, but I felt good about what I did. I wasn’t ashamed. I was proud of the number of women I’d helped resurrect their marriages and relationships. I had a skill that every heterosexual woman needed to possess—and I was damn good at teaching them the ropes.
I should thank her.
But I won’t.
The call from Candi didn’t come that day or even in the next three. Four days later, at nine o’clock at night, my phone rang from a number I didn’t recognize. Unfortunately, we were required to answer our company-issued cell phones regardless of when they went off in order to provide the best customer service possible. I’d made the mistake of trying to maintain separate phone numbers for business and personal, but all it took was confusing the two devices once, and I’d decided one phone was enough.
“Hello?”
“Um, hi. Is this…Dr. Fellatio?” The voice on the other end of the call was laden with nervous energy.
I sat straight up on the couch. My eyes went wide staring at Jasmine, and I motioned for her to turn down Big Brother. “This is she.”
“Oh, great.” She suddenly sounded much more confident, knowing she had the right person on the line. “My name is Candi. I got your number from one of my clients. She said you might be able to help me.”
“It’s nice to hear from you.” I had a spiel, but I didn’t launch into it right away. Typically, referrals came from women who had used my services, so their friends knew what to expect.
“I’m not really sure how this works.”
“Well, I like to meet with a prospective client in person to discuss their situation and get a feel for what they want to accomplish. If I think I can help them, we then schedule a visit to their home and discuss the contract. Then we set up sessions to accommodate their needs.”
“Do you have references?”
It wasn’t a question I’d never been asked because all my customers came to me through someone who’d used my services and been happy with the results. “Part of my contract is a confidentiality agreement. So unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to give out their information.”
“So how do I know I’m getting what I pay for?”
“The only thing I can tell you is my reputation stands for itself. Ask any woman in the metropolitan area if they’ve heard of Dr. Fellatio and see what kind of response you get.” I wasn’t trying to be cocky, but there was a reason women—and the occasional man—paid me thousands to teach them how to give good head.
“But what if I can’t be taught?”
“Anyone can be taught.”
“Will I have to perform in front of you?”
If I’d had anything in my mouth, I would have spit it across the room or choked on it. “No, that’s never been necessary in the past.”
“Then how will you know I’m doing it right?”
“You’ll know based on the response you get from your partner.” My techniques were tried and true. I had yet to have a dissatisfied customer.
“So you could teach a girl to perform on any shape or size?” She sounded skeptical.
“No project is too big or too small.”
“Have you ever had to deal with a micropenis?” I couldn’t tell if she asked because she was faced with a teeny weenie or out of curiosity.
“Size isn’t relative.”
“Size is always relative.” She giggled into the receiver.
“If you’re interested in talking specifics, we can certainly get together. Do you have any time this week you could meet for coffee?”
“Do you work after hours? I have appointments during the day, but my boyfriend frequently works late, so I could meet you at like seven on Thursday.”
I put her on speaker so I could look at the app on my phone. It wasn’t like I had a busy social calendar, but Dr. Fellatio’s clientele met at odd hours, so I wanted to make sure nothing overlapped.
“Can we make it eight?” I didn’t want to run the risk of having to cut Samantha Anson’s appointment short or be late.
“Sure. Do you know where Salon 817 is?”
“In Buckhead?” It was by far the wealthiest part of Atlanta—everyone knew where it was.
“Yep. There’s a coffee shop on the corner. How about there?”
“I’ll see you then.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” These women were easy to spot. Hell, I could pick them out in a crowd. If they were anticipating meeting me, their entire demeanor changed. The most confident of females became wallflowers while waiting to greet the doctor. It was a shame to see how their inability to please a man could wilt their self-esteem.
I’d helped a hundred women over the years, many of which were attractive, although most were rather average. Candi was stunning—and hiding in a remote corner of the coffee shop when I arrived. As I made my way through the line to grab a drink, I watched her and took notice of her features. Her fingers tapped on the side of her cup while her eyes searched the perimeter and the door. When the bell chimed, her head popped up and her blond hair bounced on her shoulders. I wondered briefly who colored it—there was no way those highlights were natural. But it was her mouth I took notice of—full, supple lips with just a hint of pout and the softest shade of pink. Either she’d been blessed with the most perfect instrument for pleasing a man, o
r she paid dearly for injections. Upon closer inspection, it was evident they were natural and not overfilled.
As I approached her table, her green, doe-like eyes lifted to meet my gaze. I didn’t question whether or not I had the right person; I quietly sat down across from her and extended my hand.
“Hi, Candi. I’m Alex. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Wow. You’re not at all what I expected.”
I’d heard that before. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. I figured you’d be old…and…motherly.”
Now that I hadn’t heard. I giggled politely. “Hopefully you’re not disappointed.”
“Oh, no. Actually, I’m grateful. I’d have a hard time unloading on someone who reminded me of my grandma. That’s a great dress.”
I maintained a different image as Dr. Fellatio than I did from nine to five. My makeup was heavier, more appropriate for evening, and I kicked up the heels a notch. Five-inch stilettos weren’t ideal for the office, but they screamed authority and power if you owned them when you walked. “Thank you.”
Candi appeared to have something on the tip of her tongue, so I waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, I took the lead.
“Tell me about your partner.”
She looked around as though my suggestion had been sketchy. And then she whispered, “Here?”
I patted her wrist. “Your relationship. Him as a person, not him physically.” Bless her heart, I got the impression she thought I might pimp her out to random men I found on the sidewalk.
“Oh…” She leaned back in her chair, let out a grateful sigh, and then placed her hands in her lap. “His name’s Christopher. I moved here to be close to him.”
“What was your relationship like before the move?”
“Exciting. Fun. It was different than anything I’d ever been a part of. He’s gorgeous and was totally shocked I joined him in Atlanta. From the day we met, it was electric.”
It didn’t escape my attention that she didn’t actually say anything about their connection, only their attraction. “How long have the two of you been together?”
“It was whirlwind. We dated for about six months before I moved here.”
It was unusual for me to meet with a woman whose relationship was relatively new. I didn’t know exactly how long she’d been in Atlanta, but my rough guess was they’d been together less than a year. Typically, my clients had been with their partners for ages and wanted to spice things up.
“Sounds like it. Any idea what happened when you moved here?”
“Christopher works weird hours and sometimes for days at a time without really taking any time for himself, much less us. I know he’s stressed with work and now trying to make time for me, but I just want to help him take the edge off.”
“And that’s not working?”
“He’s just not…interested. He’d rather sleep.” She closed her eyes for a second and then looked at me again. “What guy would rather take a nap than have sex?”
That was a good question. I had yet to meet one. There was always another problem. “Any chance there’s someone else occupying his time?”
“Other than his job? No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I know he’s in this for the long haul.”
I didn’t want to pry, but more often than not, in cases where men weren’t responding, it was because they were getting it elsewhere. I didn’t know Candi well enough to challenge her belief in his fidelity, so I tried another route. “Has he complained about your sexual experiences?”
She shook her head. “Oh no. We’ve never had any.”
“None?” I was confused about why she was here. I couldn’t fathom why any woman would move across the country for a man she didn’t have an intimate relationship with. Part of me wondered if the guy was gay and keeping her around as a decoy in the South.
“Uh-huh.”
“Have you ever given him oral?”
Her face flushed before her cheeks glowed a crimson hue on her fair skin. “He never asked for it.”
“So you’ve never…?”
“Never.” Candi appeared bashful when talking about sucking her man. I didn’t want to cast judgment, but I wondered what their relationship was based on.
“Does he not like it?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t come up. I just have to do something, and when my client told me about you, I thought this would be perfect. Christopher won’t be expecting it. It’s just what we need.”
I wanted to take her hand, tell her to sit down and have a conversation with the man or ask what they had in common—she might find out they both liked men. But it wasn’t my job to fix their problems, only to teach her how to satisfy him.
“Have you ever given oral?” This girl was a bombshell, there was no way she was a novice. Her lips alone were the stuff wet dreams were made of.
“I tried with a boyfriend a long time ago, but it was kind of hard—”
“Isn’t that the point?”
Discomfort marred her beautiful features like she’d just stubbed her toe and was trying not to curse. “I meant it was difficult.”
“How so?”
“He wasn’t very well endowed.”
Hence the reason she asked about size. “What about Christopher? Would that be an issue?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, not at all.” Her eyes lit up again, clearly happy with what her boyfriend was packing. “I mean, I don’t think so.” Her excitement faded from her lips. “Maybe, but hopefully not.”
“Okay.” I didn’t have a clue where this was going, but it couldn’t get any worse than whatever she already experienced. So, I reached into my purse and pulled out my standard contract. It was straightforward and to the point. “This outlines what’s included in my fee. It’s a flat rate regardless of whether we meet five times or twenty. We keep working on your performance until you know you’re the best he’s ever had. The last page is a confidentiality agreement—it protects both of us.” I slid the papers across the table and sat back while she read.
I always knew the moment a woman got to the price because one of three things happened: their eyes bugged, they swallowed hard, or they glanced up at me—Candi did all of them. “Seven thousand dollars?”
“This is a lifelong investment. I’m not just teaching you how to please one man, I’m teaching you how to please them all.” I wouldn’t budge on the fee. Women came from other states to meet with me. I’d even had some fly me to them for intense, week-long sessions because they couldn’t leave home. This was how my client list became so selective—most couldn’t afford me, regardless of whether or not they wanted to.
She didn’t respond, just cast her eyes back to the words on the page while she kept reading. “And you only take cash.” It was a statement, not a question.
I didn’t play around. This was a risk to my career; although, if I were honest, it was far more lucrative than anything I did at Seneca—or ever would do. But I couldn’t guarantee how long women would seek me out, and I never knew how many new clients I’d take on in a month or how many sessions they’d need. The longest I’d ever spent with anyone was about six months, but her fear of her husband’s penis near her face took longer to overcome than teaching her what to do with it. I should have been a psychologist—it would be far more profitable than the dregs of the marketing world.
Candi didn’t ask any other questions before reaching into her purse to pull out a pen. She scribbled her name on the contract and confidentiality agreement and then slid them back to me. I signed them as well after noticing she dotted the i in Candi with a heart. It took everything in me not to laugh. Not only was there one hearted i, there were two.
“Your last name is Caine?”
Her face lit up, and a smile lifted her cheeks. “Yep.”
“As in Candi Caine?”
“Cute, huh?”
“Definitely.” I could only imagine what kind of twisted humor her parents had.
“So when do we get star
ted?” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
I loved that once she’d made up her mind, she owned it. “The next step is for me to come to your house. You can show me around and let me get a feel for the two of you as a couple. But it needs to be a time when no one else is home.”
“I can’t tell Christopher?”
The confidentiality agreement was written so elementarily that a ten-year-old would have been able to decipher no one meant no one. But if she needed me to spell it out, I would. “No. And he can’t be around when we work together.” I’d allowed it once, and it didn’t go well. The guy somehow thought I was going to be a participant, and it went downhill faster than he could get his pants up. “Think of this as a gift you’re giving him. A surprise. You wouldn’t want to spoil Christmas morning.”
Her shoulders drooped just a hair. “In that case, I’ll need to call you to let you know when I have the money together.”
“Not a problem. You have my number. I’ll bring you a copy of the contract then.”
It wasn’t the first time, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last that a woman had to finagle a way to get that kind of cash without her significant other realizing a huge chunk of change was missing from their bank account. But if she wanted it badly enough, she’d find a way.
“Nice to meet you, Candi.”
“You too, Alex.”
Jasmine had long since gone to bed by the time I got home after my session with Samantha—who I was convinced had some sort of medical salivation issue—and meeting with Candi. It wasn’t until the next morning at work that she cornered me in the breakroom.
“So what’d you think of Candi? Pretty amazing, right?”
“We didn’t sit around braiding each other’s hair while singing ‘Kumbaya’ by the campfire, Jasmine.” I smirked in her direction as I made a cup of coffee.
She hopped on the counter next to me, and her skirt rode up her thighs.
“You know people prepare food there, right?”
