LICKIN' LICENSE
by
Intelligent Allah
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC
60 Evergreen Place Suite 904
East Orange, New Jersey 07018
973-678-9982
Copyright 2011 © by Intelligent Tarref Allah
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN 13-digit 978-0-982841426
ISBN 10-digit 0-9828414-2-6
Library of Congress Catalog Number 2010936251
1. Urban, Erotica, Lesbian, African-American, Brooklyn, NY, Street Lit – Fiction
Cover design and layout by Oddball Design
Book interior design by NuanceArt
Contributing Editors: Jazzy Pen Communications and R. Hamilton
Printed in United States
Green & Company Printing. LLC
I'm from Brooklyn, so I know heads in 'hoods all over New York City. I've been locked down since '94, so I'm cool with dudes all over the New York State prison system. I'm an active member of the Nation of Gods and Earths, so I know brothers and sisters with knowledge of self across country. My family is deep and it extends from Florida to Albany, New York. But if you fall in any of these categories and you're not mentioned, don't take it personal. The shout-outs will come later. These are acknowledgements of the people I recognize for directly helping me over the years to become the writer I am. The fiction I write is the result of me writing in virtually every field there is, with inspiration, instruction and insight from a lot of people.
My peeps (formerly The Ill Cipher and Masked Villains) that I ran the streets with and started writing rhymes with back in '92. My physical brother Uneek and my righteous brothers Victorious (East Medina Entertainment), Whyz Ruler (Intelligent Business Investments), I.B. and Be Born. I was just dabbling in poetry until y'all influenced me to start spiting. One of the nicest emcees I met Up North—that inspired me to write a 50-bar verse after hearing him: Jah Gunz a.k.a. Dirty Gunz (E.N.Y.) Writing rhymes helped pave the way for nearly every type of writing I've done, from articles and screenplays to copywriting and editorials to essays and fiction.
My comrades that introduced me to writing as a means of fighting for my freedom and challenging unjust prison conditions. The late Power Ruler Nation Allah, R.I.P. Divine G (Author of
Baby Doll
and
Money Grip
, among other books).
Larry "Luqman" White, Gene, Arnold, Baba, Pooch, Kasiem, Quick, Q, Abdul Majid and all the other brothers who served on the editorial boards of
The Lifers' Call
and
Ujima
with me.
The college instructors who helped me step up my pen game. Professor William G. Martin and Assistant Professor Michael Hames-Garcia from Binghamton University. Professors Tad Richards, Delia Mellis, Rachel Levitsky, Jane Schlubach and Amanda Vladick from Bard College. I had no interest in some of the things I had to write about, but the process of researching and writing helped me a lot. The writing instructors from other writing courses I learned from over the years. Robert Gover (Writer's Digest Novel Writing Workshop), Pattie Eagan (Shawangunk Valley School), Kathleen Reid (Rising Hope, Inc.).
Elise S. Zealand for serving as editor of my articles and essays early on and blessing me with
The Elements of Style.
My professor and instructor of the Harvest Moon Collective poetry group: the late renown poet and author Janine Pomey-Vega who helped me advance my poetic skills and focus on
The Elements of Style
. R.I.P. Arin Arbus for your analytical eye and insight on characterization and screenwriting. Zenola Watkins for always giving me an intelligent woman's view on my work. Gysia a.k.a. Kwame Ersell (
Brooklyn: Lessons on Young Lives in Chaos
), where would I be had you not schooled me on fiction early on? Zach Tate, the Ambassador to the Elite (Author of
Lost & Turned Out
and
No Way Out
), thanks for not being a yes-man and being a grown man. You’re home now, so take over this industry! Rashawn Hughes (Author of
Under Pressure
), I owe you a lot as a confidant and fellow writer. Papooch a.k.a. F. Gee Heyward (Author of
Game Like Honey
), the most active go-getter I met in prison. Casio Mike (Author of
2 Sides to a Story
) and The Twinz (Authors of
Crime Pays
), watching each of y'all make it happen from scratch in the pen was an inspiration. DeVine (Author of
Humor From Behind The Walls
), a woman of your intellect and ambition is a rare source of motivation for me. Keep writing. My fellow East New Yorker, Dee from The Pink Houses, I've never seen anybody write as much as you do. I'm waiting on Texas Tom (LOL). Stroke from Harlem, for reading and giving me feedback on everything from my 'hood tales to my romance. Glad you're home, but I wish you could've critiqued
Lickin' License
. Dr. Supreme Understanding Allah (Author of
How to Hustle and Win
and
Rap, Race and Revolution
), for giving me a voice in the book
Knowledge of Self: A Collection of Wisdom on the Science of Everything in Life
. Winthrop Holder, for giving me a voice in the book
Classroom Calypso
. God Kalim, for giving me a voice in
The Five Percenter
. Everyone at theurbanbooksource.com for giving me a platform. Freyda Dinshah, for publishing my work in American Vegan.
The people who gave me feedback on
Lickin' License
. Joan Burke Stanford of Jazzy Pen Communications, from one editor to another, you're the truth! My mother Margaret for your editorial assistance. June from Bushwick, for the Spanish spelling. Everyone else that gave me overall assessments. Nut from Crown Heights, some publishing company needs to put you on their payroll. Kay from Newburgh, good looking on the Balmville info. Shamah ShaRize from the BX, you went in hard on me. Peace Soldier—Nothing Else matters but freedom!!! Yusef from Albany, thanks for speaking your mind Breezy from the BX, don't be so hard on Vanessa. (LOL) Science from Brownsville, I'll be following you out there, so catch me at a signing. Khalil a.k.a. Bless, my ENY homie, when I thought I was done, you proved me wrong. Big King from L.I., I appreciate you helping me logistically to make this a reality.
Wahida Clark. We go about six years back at least, since you were in the pen. I always told you I respect your hustle. Thanks for keeping me busy on the editorial side and now letting your company be an outlet for me to showcase my talent. As I always tell you, stay focused, stay real and stay up!
Kisha Upshaw and the entire WCP staff, from the readers to the typists. A lot goes into bringing a book from manuscript to store shelf. People just don't know. No business can prosper without a strong team! To all the writers of WCP: Tash Hawthorne (
Karma With A Vengeance
, Parts 1 & 2), Cash (
Trust No Man
, Parts 1 & 2 and
Bonded by Blood
), Missy Jackson (
Cheetah
), Mike Sanders, (
Thirsty
, Parts 1 & 2), Victor L. Martin, (
The Game of Deception
) and Anthony Fields (
The Ultimate Sacrifice
). Every book y'all put out helped fuel me to step it up and move with WCP.
For everyone about to taste
Lickin' License
, I dare you not to touch yourself or your significant other (LOL). After you've tasted
Lickin' License
, post a book review on amazon.com. Thanks to my cousin Bunny in The A, you can go to Facebook and MySpace directly to let your words be heard and learn more about me. You can send me your feedback at Intelligent Allah #95A4315, Box 1000, Woodbourne, N.Y. 12788. I need you to help me get my mind right while I work on
Lickin' License
2:
More Sex, More Saga
. I write for me, but I'm motivated by you. Peace.
CHAPTER ONE
sex was in the air. The woman’s long legs were spread as far apart as possible. Her back sunk into the leather couch of her office. Her slanted eyes rolled to the back of her head. She thrust her pelvis forward as her body jerked uncontrollably as if she was having an exorcism. She felt like she was floating. Her lips quivered. The euphoric sensation of her throbbing clit was all she sensed. Her oak desk, the photos on her walls, the ultra modern lamps, the breeze from the ceiling fan—they all were non-existent. The only important thing was the tongue between her thighs. It made her feel so good that she could not utter a sound, although her mouth was wide open. Candy’s manicured fingernails clawed the crushed velvet couch as she climaxed. Finally, she managed to whisper, “Thank you.”
She opened her eyes as Vera removed her face from between her legs. Candy watched the firm figure of the nineteen-year-old wiping her cum-soaked lips. Vera’s gold and brown dreads hung to her slim waist, just above her large, round butt. Her body was a work of art. It
appeared to have been perfectly sculpted from chocolate and it tasted just as sweet.
“Why you lookin' at me like that?” Vera asked.
Candy leaned up until she was sitting in the center of the couch. “Come here,” she
whispered.
Vera smiled, stepping forward. “What's up, baby?”
Candy gazed at Vera's perky B-cups, and then grabbed a handful of her butt. “You know your body is so beautiful, right?”
Vera giggled.
Candy turned her around and gently kissed on each of her butt cheeks then slid her tongue between them.
“Ahh,” Vera whimpered.
In seconds, Candy had Vera slumped over the arm of the couch, jabbing her tongue into
Vera's crack. She slid her hand underneath Vera and massaged her clit simultaneously.
Clutching Vera’s waist with her other hand, Candy tried to stop her from squirming uncontrollably.
The more Vera moaned the more wet Candy became. Seconds
turned to minutes and time flew as their sweaty bodies overheated with lust.
“I can feel it, Candy.” Vera began panting. “I'm cumming.”
Candy slurped and rubbed faster until she felt Vera's delicate body go limp and her
panting stop. She stood and patted Vera on the butt. “Come on,” Candy said as she led Vera into the private
bathroom connected to her office. The two women lathered and rinsed each other's bodies, a sensual
routine to which they had become accustomed.
Thirty minutes later after the two women were dressed, Candy glanced at her watch. It was 10:10 a.m., ten
minutes past the opening time at Candy's Shop—Harlem's hottest hair salon. Candy was sure
Leah was waiting out front. The gorgeous Latina was her most reliable employee, always on
time. “You ready?” Candy asked Vera.
Vera nodded.
She and Candy walked out of the office and through an area filled with
lockers and benches that served as a dressing room.
They stepped into the brightly lit, spacious beauty shop that housed five work stations equipped with
state-of-the-art hair tools and chairs. The walls were covered with mirrors and photos of women
who had their hair done at the shop, plus snapshots of exclusive hairdos from
Essence
magazine.
Candy grabbed a remote off a table covered with magazines. She pointed it at the iPod doc
beneath one of the two large flat screen televisions. The surround sound system began blaring
Jay-Z's
Empire State of Mind
from the speakers discretely situated throughout the shop.
“Hey, Candy,” Leah said, stepping into the shop. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late.”
She smiled at Vera. “Vera.”
“Hi, Leah,” Vera responded.
Candy turned to Vera. “Call me later.”
Vera winked and stepped out of the shop.
Candy looked at the smirk on Leah's face and shook her head, before sitting down.
“Don't even say it, girl.”
Leah laughed. “You are just too much. You and these young girls.”
“She's a grown woman.”
“Technically, but barely legal. You got her by what? Eleven years? You really need to stop taking advantage of these young girls.”
Candy was silent, noticing the seriousness in Leah’s tone and facial expressions.
“She'll be twenty soon, so you can say ten.”
“Didn't you say she got some crazy-ass brothers? They'll probably kill you if they find out you turned out their sister.”
Candy sucked her teeth. “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, thinking of how wild she heard
Vera's brothers were. But she knew they would never find out about her. Vera feared her family
learning about her sexuality. It was the reason that she was comfortable traveling, all the way from Brooklyn where she and her brothers lived, to Harlem to see Candy.
“Just be careful,” Leah said as she made her way to her station and began setting up for work.
Meisha stepped through the door. “Newww Yorkkk. Concrete jungle where dreams are made offf,” the chunky brown-skinned Harlemite sang along with the music in the shop. “Owe.”
A short, dark-skinned diva donning Fendi heels followed behind Meisha. She
strutted over to the chair at her workstation as if she was a model on
Rip the Runway.
She set her Fendi bag down and removed her matching shades, revealing her hazel eyes. “Chanel has just
entered the building. Thank you, thank you.” She bowed and smiled. “No autographs, please.
Thank you.”
Leah burst into laughter. “Y'all are crazy. Only in Candy's Shop.”
The ladies exchanged hellos and hugs. They began preparing for their customers to enter
the shop. Leah, Chanel, Meisha and Candy were the four stylists that made Candy's Shop more
than Harlem's go-to spot for hairdos. The shop was where women came to discuss the latest gear by Roberto Cavalli, what brother would be the next official sex symbol to replace Denzel
Washington after he retired, who was the last person shot or arrested in Harlem and what
handsome thug was coming home from jail with a hard dick in his pants and pussy on his mind.
While Meisha added on to whatever was mentioned, Leah usually brought some mental
stimulation to the conversations—the type of mental stimulation she got from Long Island
University, where she majored in business management. Despite the professionalism Leah and the other stylists brought to the shop,
Candy was searching for another beautician. She had fired the last one because of the
woman's laziness. Candy liked a festive environment in the shop, but she took her business
seriously. She had opened the shop 10 years earlier in the summer of 2000 with the help of Leah. Leah had always had a business mind, but she didn’t have the money Candy had accumulated from hustlers she dated. Candy felt guilty knowing that Leah’s insight helped create the shop, but Leah had no ownership in the shop. But Candy was all business and the business was all her’s. The shop had helped her
maintain a luxurious Harlem apartment with two closets full of designer clothes and the
customized BMW M3 she steered to the bank each week to deposit $1,000 into her savings
account.
Chanel stepped outside and returned with two Sak's Fifth Avenue shopping bags.
“All right, all right, y'all. It's that time of the month and I don't mean the red light special,” Chanel said. It was customary that each month a different person in the shop gave out gifts to everyone
who worked there. Chanel began pulling out clothes from the bag—a Christian Dior blouse for
Leah, a Fendi clutch for Meisha. “And last, but not least,” Chanel said, stepping over to Candy.
“A Michael Kors shirt for the hottest chick in Harlem.”
“Thank you,” Candy said, hugging Chanel. “This is hot.” She held up the silk
lavender piece so everyone could see it.
“Girl, that's nothin'. You know how we do,” Chanel said.
Candy smiled. It was those displays of camaraderie that Candy loved about the
shop. She watched Chanel walk away and then peered into the mirror in front of
her. The five foot ten redbone adjusted her weave. She had the body of an Amazon and the face of a
beauty queen. People often told her that she needed to leave the hair business behind and pursue
modeling.
“Hey, Candy,” Leah called out.
“What's up?” Candy responded.
“You give any thought to that idea I gave you for starting another business?”
“Yeah, jotted down some ideas.”
“Ahh, here we go,” said Chanel, shaking her head. “Heifer got a punk-ass beauty salon; now she wanna be Bill Gates out this bitch.”
“Wish I was Bill Gates,” Leah said. “He lost seven billion last year and he still the richest dude in the country with fifty billion.”
“You heard that, Chanel? Billion. Can you spell that?” Candy laughed.
“I hear that hot shit,” Chanel mumbled.
“Now, Leah, as I was saying before East New York's finest ho interrupted. I'm thinking about hair care products.”
“There's a big market for it, but there's an even bigger industry supplying.” Leah pointed
at the assortment of products in front of her. “There's about a dozen brands here alone that I'm using.”
“I know, I know, I know. That's why I have to find a niche.”
“You should go online and do some research. See how big the market is, then see how big the industry is. Then see where you can fit in.”
“Yeah, guess I'll hit Google and see what's up.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Rich announced, as he walked through the front door and
removed his aviator shades. The stylish hustler lived in a penthouse on 100
th
Street,
where the Upper West Side ended and Harlem began. He seemed to switch up his women and cars by the week. He had a tall, athletic build and the complexion of Taye Diggs. According to the rumor mill in Harlem, he had a dick like a donkey and the stamina of a cheetah.
Rich stopped in front of Meisha. He pointed at her curly hair, then his cornrows, which Meisha had styled a few days earlier. “You ready?”
“One minute,” said Meisha. “Sit down. I gotta make a quick call.”
Rich sat and leaned back, rubbing his hands together, as Meisha pulled out her Sidekick.
“I'm a busy man, Meisha. You know if I could stop time, I
wouldn't need this Rolex.”
Chanel sucked her teeth. “Plllease. You need to stop your bullshit.”
“Here she go again,” Candy mumbled to Leah. They had seen Chanel and Rich go at it
regularly. Rich once had his eyes on her until she and Rich’s friend Chase got drunk and woke up in each other’s arms after a night of sex.
Rich spun around in his chair and faced Chanel with a smile. “The lovely Ms. Chanel. You sure look good, girl. I ain't even gon' lie.” He shook his head. “But not good enough for me.”
Chanel gave him the finger. “You wish you could have this.” She shifted her butt toward him.
“Just tell me how much,” Rich said. “A Gucci bag? Louie? No, no, no, no. You big time. Hermes Birkin bag, right?”
Chanel pinched her tight jeans. “You can't afford what's in these True Religions.”
“No, no, no, no, baby. You got it all wrong. Rich don't pay for pussy. I need to know what it's gonna cost me to get you off my dick?”
“No, he didn't,” Leah whispered.
“Yes he did,” Candy said.
“Fuck you, Rich!” Chanel spat, turning around.
Almost on cue, Meisha returned and began prepping Rich. She loosened his braids and shampooed his hair, as more customers entered the shop. Within 10 minutes, all the chairs were full. The flat
screen TVs at each end of the shop were on and Mary J. Blige was crooning through the sound
system.
At one o'clock, the ladies went out to lunch, and then returned 45 minutes later. The ladies were seated in the shop joking about Rich and Chanel.
“Chanel, look me in the eyes and tell me you don't wanna fuck Rich,” Meisha said.
Chanel spun around, stared into Meisha's doe eyes and calmly replied, “No, I don't wanna fuck—” She burst into laughter before completing her sentence.
“I knew it,” Meisha said, biting down on her bottom lip. “It's okay, girl. I know how it
feel. When I be doing his hair, sometimes I just wanna jump on him and take the dick.”
“He's so picky with who he mess with,” Chanel said. “Conceited bastard.”
“Just like you,” Leah added.
“That's why y'all will never get together,” Candy interjected. “You looking for somebody to drink your bath water and he looking for somebody to hold his dick when he piss.”
Chanel jumped from her seat and began posing in front of a mirror. She held one of her
breasts. “D-cups, all natural.” She ran her hands through her long curls. “Real hair.” She pointed at her hazel eyes. “No contacts.” She shifted her hips. “And I got ass for days. Not conceited, I just know for a fact that Chanel Dennison is the shit.”
“Candy's right, though,” said Leah.
“Come on, Leah. I know you're not buying that bullshit. Not
from Candy, anyway,”
Chanel said. “She get more pussy than Rich.”
Candy laughed. “Now you know I didn't always have my lickin’ license.” Everyone in
the shop knew Candy had once dated some of the most notorious guys in Harlem. One hustler,
Dez, had run in the same circles with Rich until he was murdered five years earlier at a dice game on 135
th
Street.
Candy had always liked women, but never acted on her desires until after Dez's death
. People speculated whether Dez's lesbian sister Sheena had turned Candy out, but Candy
denied it.
“All right, Candy,” Chanel said. “We know you used to get up under a dick, but you been
out the loop for a minute.”