by iiKane
Georgie acknowledged the point, but replied, “I know Ma, but believe me, it was more than that. It hurts.”
Stephanie smiled graciously then caressed his cheek.
“Then maybe she’s the one.”
“Yeah well, if she is, she’s gone,” he snorted bitterly.
“Naw baby, if she’s the one, you’ll see her again. When you let someone go, if they come back to you, then they’re truly yours. I’m sure she’s somewhere thinking the same thing,” she surmised.
“Maybe.”
“And…well, I’ve got some bad news for you…K.B.’s locked up for murder.”
Mother and son looked at one another. A look of confirmation passed between them.
“I’ma go see him,” Georgie replied.
“Yeah, he probably needs that,” Stephanie seconded, then patted him on the chest. “Now, come on out of this tomb and rejoin the living!”
They went into the living room where one of Stephanie’s mixtapes was playing on the stereo. There was a half empty bottle of Tanqueray on the coffee table and cigarette smoke everywhere. Michelle was curled up on the end of the couch with her legs tucked under her, cigarette aloft. Stephanie sat down in the loveseat closest to Michelle where her cigarettes, lighter and drink were waiting for her. Georgie leaned in the doorway and took in the scene.
“Ya’ll look like twins.”
Stephanie looked at Michelle.
“I know, right? I told him the same thing.”
Michelle positively glowed at the comment, because it said that Stephanie accepted her for who she was. Stephanie lit a cigarette.
“But Michael ain’t the only one with an alter ego, I hear… Giorgio.”
Georgie bust out laughing.
“When he told me, I said that sound just like some shit Georgie would do!” Stephanie snickered.
“And it’s working! They are going crazy for him,” Michelle exclaimed.
“Of course it’s working; that’s my baby! Tell ‘em, Georgie, we make it happen!”
It made Georgie feel better to be surrounded by love, laughter and music, and then…it happened.
Sky’s the limit and you know that you keep on;
Just keep on pressin’ on…
“Georgie, come dance with your Mama!”
Georgie smoked weed back in Philly. He hadn’t smoked since he came to New York. Until. Then he started smoking again. Blunts, big blunts. Cigars filled with weed. To roll a blunt, you split the body of the cigar and dump the guts. Then you fill it with another substance—a substitute substance—weed.
Then you inhale.
Georgie drank. There’s something masculine about drinking. Being able to take the burn in your chest, the sizzle in your throat, the ability to turn the emotions into a physical obstacle to be overcome—to be able to take it.
He continued to get appointments, in fact they even increased during the time that he didn’t answer the phone. But there was something missing. He didn’t have his usual flair. He made mistakes, at first only little mistakes obvious only to his meticulous eye, but little by little, the mistakes got to be more obvious.
Smack!
“Ohhh Giorgio!”
Smack! Smack!
“I’m coming again!” she squealed, her whole body trembling.
Georgie had the middle-aged White woman bent over on his bed, ass up and face in the pillow. She lived in the Upper Westside. She was the wife of an investment banker. He had come over to do her hair, and like so many other appointments, ended up doing her as well.
“You like it rough, don’t you? Don’t you?!” Georgie taunted, his teeth clenched as he pounded her relentlessly from the back.
“Oh yesssss, I love it rough; I love it rough!” she gasped, her ample titties swinging and bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, leaning forward to bite her neck.
“I – I – I’m going to explode,” she cried.
“Cum for me, baby; come all over this dick,” he growled.
“Nooo, I can’t…take…not a…oooooooh!”
When she came, Georgie didn’t hold back and coated her throbbing walls before they both collapsed on the bed.
She moved her hair from her face then turned to look at him.
“You are amazing,” she remarked, breathlessly.
Georgie rolled over on his back, grabbing his vodka neat off of the night stand.
“I know,” he chuckled, cockily.
Her eyes suddenly got wider, like a thought had just popped into her head.
“Oh! With you being so naughty, I forgot to look at my style,” she exclaimed, jumping up and running over to the vanity mirror. He winked then downed his drink.
And then she saw it.
She had told him that she wanted some pizzazz, something playful and risqué, without being over the top.
“Yes, yes,” he had assured her, his voice accented to go along with the Giorgio persona.
But what she got wasn’t what she expected.
“Oh my…God!” she shrieked, grabbing her hair.
She turned on her heel, eyes blazing.
“What have you done?!”
She had raven black hair with an almost gypsy quality to it, so Georgie had decided to add some platinum blond streaks. But instead of vertical streaks, he wanted to go with a bolder diagonal style, with streaks cutting asymmetrically. The only problem was, he was tipsy when he did it, so it came out looking more spotted than streaked.
“I look like a Dalmatian!” she whined, her nasal tone melting into a cry.
When she said it, the image of a Dalmatian came into his drunken mind and he exploded with laughter.
“This…is…not…funny!” she screamed, hysterically.
It only made Georgie laugh harder. The more livid she got, the more hilarious Georgie found it.
“Look what you’ve done to me! You ruined my hair! Get out! Get out! You’re through, do you hear me? Through!” she raged.
Finally dressed, tears of laughter in his eyes, Georgie staggered out of the door. She slammed it behind him. In the ricocheting vibration of the slamming door, Georgie could hear the floor cracking under his dreams of owning his own salon. The door slammed with such finality that he was sure it would soon echo all over New York.
But the worst part was that he didn’t even care.
Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage
Slide slide slippity-slide
With switches on the block in a ′65!
The club was packed with people, jamming to Coolio and celebrating Yvette’s upcoming “Fantastic Voyage” to her new life in LA. Georgie leaned against the bar, drink in hand, taking it all in. Just as he had predicted, the slamming door echoed all over the city, slamming over and over again. Just as quickly as he had become the toast of the town, the negative force of gossip’s gravity made the return trip twice as fast. Within a year, the name Giorgio became anathema in the hair circles, and he had no one to blame but himself.
“Georgie! What are you doin’ hiding way back here? You runnin’ from me?” Yvette quizzed, simpering.
Georgie sipped his drink and chuckled.
“Naw ‘Vette, just chillin’, you know? You lookin’ forward to L.A.?”
“Yes and no. Excited, scared; it’s almost like being bipolar,” she joked.
“Yeah well, I know you’re gonna do your thing. And I wanna thank you for everything you did for me. The clothes, the connects. It might not seem like it after how that shit turned out, but I definitely appreciate it,” he said.
“Awww,” Yvette cooed, head cocked to the side. “Don’t worry, baby. New York is a fickle town. It loves you, it hates you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’ll love you again after another Quaalude.”
He laughed, remembering the line from Scarface.
“And umm, a friend of a friend—who I know would know—says Anya went to L.A. If I see her, I’ll tie her up and send her
back on the first thing smoking,” Yvette smirked.
“Going to chase the sun,” he thought.
“Thanks, Ma,” he replied, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m gonna miss you.”
They hugged warmly. Yvette leaned back in the hug to get a better angle.
“You’re a good man, Georgie. You just can’t keep that mess in your pants. No, you just won’t keep your mess in my pants!”
They laughed.
“You too much, Ma.” Georgie remarked as he headed to the bathroom. When he entered the bathroom, it was empty. Along the wall were four urinals. He chose the urinal in the corner. By the time he whipped it out and began to piss, a man walked in. Georgie hardly noticed him, but it kind of puzzled him when the man chose the urinal right next to him, even though the other two were open. But he was tipsy, bordering on drunk, and in that state of mind, subtleties seldom register.
“Niiiice…you ever do porn?”
Georgie heard the words but didn’t realize that the man was talking to him until he turned his head and saw that he was looking at his dick! Georgie damn near pissed on himself as he put his dick back in his pants with one hand and shoved the man with the other. He pushed him so hard that his dress shoes skidded on the slick bathroom floor and he fell to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet because he saw Georgie stalking toward him, fists clenched like iron blocks.
“Hey – hey – hey, take it easy man; I swear it’s not how it sounds!”
Georgie yoked him up by the collar and slammed his back against the wall.
“What kind of shit you into?”
“I swear it’s not like that, I’m not like that! I’m a porn producer! Here, look!” the man stammered.
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. “See? Sid Wiseman, Backshotz Productions.”
Georgie snatched the card from his hand and glared at him hard. He looked like the comedian Billy Crystal with a big, “Welcome Back, Kotter” mustache. He looked at the card. It said exactly what Sid said it did. Still, Georgie maintained his grip.
“What the fuck that got to do with you lookin’ at my dick?!”
“Listen, I know you’re upset, but it’s kind of hard to talk with my wanker hanging out,” Sid explained.
Georgie didn’t even want to look down. He let Sid go and stepped back. Sid fixed himself, straightened his tie, then explained, “I’ve heard a lot about you; we move in the same circles, sorta, anyways. The way I heard about you, hair’s not the only thing you do well. Know what I mean? So I see you here and I see you going into the bathroom. I figure, a quick peep will let me know if you’re my guy, I mean, not like…well, you get where I’m coming from?”
“You coulda come at me a different way.”
“Yeah, but I figure asking you to lay your dick on the bar would’ve been a bit awkward,” Sid replied.
Georgie looked at him for a moment with a scowl, then broke out into a chuckle.
“Only in New York,” he remarked, shaking his head.
Sid breathed a sigh of relief then stuck out his hand.
“Sid Wiseman.”
Georgie just looked at it.
“Oh,” Sid grunted. He went to the sink then quickly washed and dried his hands. Then Sid extended his hand again. This time, Georgie shook it.
“Giorgio.”
Sid stopped, looked at Georgie, who cracked a smile. Sid washed his hands again because he realized that Georgie hadn’t washed his.
“So whaddya say, Giorgio? Believe me, you can make a lot of money in the porn game with a rod like that.”
Georgie shrugged.
“Not my thing,” he replied then handed the card back.
“Gonna stick with the hair thing, huh?”
“No doubt,” Georgie replied and headed out the door.
A few moments later, Sid came out and caught up with him.
“Hey, I was thinkin’…Have you ever heard of Skye?”
“Yeah, of course,” Georgie replied.
He prided himself on being up on new music. Skye was an up-and-coming house music artist that the music scene in New York was raving about. They were calling her the Black Madonna, but had failed to see the irony.
“Well, the guy who manages her—actually that’s his name—Guy’s a friend of mine and I happen to know Skye just fired her stylist. Again. She runs through ‘em. I think you’d be perfect,” he emphasized, saying the word “perfect” with that accent common to Brooklyn Jewry.
Georgie stopped walking and looked at him skeptically.
“You know Skye’s manager?”
“I even went to his Bar Mitzvah.”
“And you’re gonna introduce me? Why?”
Sid shrugged.
“I like your style, kid. Besides, since you didn’t kick my ass back there, I figure I owe you one.”
Georgie laughed.
“Yeah, I guess you do.”
“So, you game?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now.”
“Now?” Georgie echoed.
“This is New York, kid. Everything happens now!”
The moment Georgie laid eyes on Skye, he knew she was destined to be larger than life. It wasn’t just because she was gorgeous, like Lisa Bonet gorgeous. Not Lisa Bonet when she was on the “Cosby Show,” all pale and Gothic. Lisa Bonet in Angel Heart, when she was as golden as the Egyptian sunrise and tangy like Cajun gumbo.
Skye stood no more than 5’4”—yet in her spiked-heeled, patent leather boots that came up to her crotch, she was four inches taller. She had a svelte but shapely figure. She was wearing a black Dominatrix outfit, complete with a long leather whip that she dragged around the stage like a tail.
No, it wasn’t just her look that screamed “star;” it was her mere presence. The way she worked the stage, worked the crowd: her voice, crisp and siren like. She didn’t have a great voice, but what she had she used to mesmerizing effect.
The club was vibrating from the boom of the bass. It sounded like Godzilla stomping the shit out of Tokyo. And every person in the crowd was hopping up and down, wanting to be squashed next. They knew all the words to Skye’s club smash, “Rim Shots” and from the lyrics, Georgie knew she wasn’t singing about drumming techniques.
The song built to a certain crescendo—like the moment before an orgasm—then exploded into the break. But just before the climax, Skye waved her arm and the music stopped on a dime. The crowd groaned in unison, like a woman on the verge of orgasm.
“Silence!” she barked, shrill voice booming through the speakers.
Crrrrraaaack! The whip snapped crisply over the crowd. Whoever the sound engineer was timed the snap perfectly and reinforced it with the sound of a cracking whip.
“You…are…not…worthy,” she said, her mouth extra close to the mic.
The crowd went crazy, as if seconding her statement.
“You want it?” she barked, cracking the whip.
Crrrrraaaack! The speaker hissed.
“Yessss!” the crowd screamed.
“Then send me a sacrifice!” Skye demanded, eyeing the crowd.
People clamored to be the one.
“You!” she hissed, pointing to a man in the front row.
He looked like a young Yuppie. He had on a shirt and tie, but no jacket. Skye bent down as he started to climb on stage. She wrapped his tie around her hand and half dragged him onto the stage. She barely let him gain his bearing before she sat him down on a folding metal chair that two females in dominatrix outfits brought out. They handcuffed his hands behind his back and shackled his legs together. Meanwhile, Georgie watched as Skye stalked the stage with a strut that would’ve made Beyoncé bow down, and then turned and walked up to him, put her foot against his chest and kicked him over on his back. The crowd went crazy. She then stepped over his fallen body, sat on his face then hit a big powerful note like a woman having the ultimate orgasm. The music came back on and the crowd went from wild to hyster
ical, screaming so loud that a few got nose bleeds.
All that Georgie could do was smile in total awe and say to himself, “She’s a goddess.”
Sid overheard him and nodded.
“Amazing, right? I thought the same thing when I first saw her!” Sid yelled over the music. “Believe me, I remember Madonna when she was a stringy-haired brunette from Detroit, and she didn’t have half the fire Skye’s got!”
Georgie only half heard him, and it wasn’t because of the blazing music. Visions of Skye had his mind going at warp speed.
Her set ended and the stage went black. Once the crowd’s post-coital glow had begun to wane, Sid said, “Come on, let’s go meet her.”
“Great show, Skye,” Guy said as she walked off the stage.
He handed her a Long Island Iced Tea, her after show drink and a Newport, freshly lit.
“Thanks, but the snaps weren’t quite right. Speak to the sound man,” she replied then inhaled a much-needed nicotine infusion.
One of her dancers walked up.
“Umm Skye…we’ve got a problem.”
Skye looked at her. She hated problems.
I…we…someone forgot the handcuffs’ keys back at the studio.”
She patted the girl’s cheek then caressed her hair.
“Okay…just go get it, bring it back and never let me see you again,” she said, then dropped the smile and added, “You’re fired.”
The girl, knowing better than to mouth off at Skye sucked her teeth, then rolled her eyes as she turned and strutted off.
“Stupid bitch,” Skye mumbled.
The other dancer approached with the handcuffed man. Skye gave him a smile that a blind man could feel.
“Hi! What’s your name?”
His face brightened.
“Skye! I mean Bob; it’s nice to meet you, Skye!”
“You too…listen Bob; we have a slight, teensy weensy problem, okay.” Somebody forgot the handcuffs’ keys, but they’re going to get it as we speak,” she explained, neglecting to mention that she had just fired her. “So we’ll have you out of those things in a sec, ‘kay? In the meantime, would you like a drink with me, Bill.”
“Bob.”
“Bobby,” she replied with a Kewpie doll smile.
