Chapter 21 The Blow Job Class
Chapter twenty-one
The Blow Job Class
Teyonah
I could smell the citrus cleaner before I pushed open the glass door—Ro’s sex positive clinic always gleamed like money and a confession: velvet-cushioned chairs in a perfect circle, soft lamps, a long table lined with champagne flutes and tidy rows of lube packets, flavored condoms, and silicone dildos in every shade laid out like a candy buffet.
A digital board glowed behind the front table. On the front was written in neat font, “Blow Job Basics: Relaxation, Rhythm, and Breathwork.”
Our BJ professor, Star stood in black slacks and a crisp white blouse.
“Eh, y’all! We’re in the back row,” Ro called, already waving us over like a woman hosting church and a roast at the same time. Her locs were piled high. Her gold hoops gleamed, and her mouth was already in a wicked grin.
Cadence walked beside me in full librarian mode—cool mouth, black glasses, neat bun, straight spine, and sensible cardigan.
My stomach did a slow roll that had nothing to do with nervousness for the blow job class and everything to do with the bastard in my house who wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.
Forget about that for now. You’re here to support Ro. Not dwell on your problems.
I smiled at Star as we headed by and got in the back row. I remembered how Ro had raved last month about hiring her.
Star wasn’t just some random instructor—she’d been that girl for years.
High-end, high-priced, the kind of sex worker corporate men and rich celebrities bragged about but never admitted paying for.
She had gotten herself out of that life before it swallowed her whole, trading champagne-slick hotel rooms for graduate seminars and community halls.
Now Star spoke at rallies, wrote op-eds, and fought for rights most politicians didn’t even want to name out loud.
Ro said Star always pointed out the hypocrisy: sex industry jobs where women succeeded—sex work, stripping, modeling, and even influencing—were the first to get dragged as “less than,” while men could build empires off the same hunger and never get shamed.
Looking at Star now, poised and unshaken, I thought she carried all of that into the room. Calm, clinical, almost maternal. A woman who’d seen the worst of desire and decided to teach us how to enjoy and control it without shame.
“These classes are booked out,” Ro had bragged to me on the phone. “Star is an absolute pro. There’s hundreds of Five-star Yelps and one woman tagged “Hot Grandma” said the blow job class saved her marriage of fifty years.”
Tonight looked the same: sold out and buzzing, Black women of every age and body size, laughing with their mouths and their shoulders at once, the way we laugh when we’re just barely keeping it together yet determined to have some fun.
Four shirtless men moved silently throughout the room like well-trained waiters from some sinful dream—broad chests gleaming under the soft lights, black tuxedo pants cut sharp against their hips.
They weren’t part of Star’s curriculum, just Ro’s flair for drama: Class Helpers whose only job was to keep our glasses full.
One handed me a champagne flute and another to Cadence.
Next, we got to our seats.
Ro took her glass and then sat in the seat right next to us. “Okay. Quick. Pre-class gossip. Go.”
“Well. . .I’ve got some drama.” Cadence tipped her glass but didn’t drink. “I’m banning him.”
Ro blinked. “Who?”
“That biker.” Cadence’s mouth compressed. “Dirty blonde. Six-five. Muscular. Keeps turning picture books in late and won’t pay his dues. I’m done. I’m flagging his account and banning him from borrowing anything else.”
Oh shit.
Ro leaned back and widened her eyes. “So some scary guy is coming into your library and you are about to boss up on him about library dues? You better leave that man alone.”
I nodded. “I’m siding with Ro on this one, Cadence. Every time you mention this biker, he sounds like he can snap your car in half with one hand.”
Cadence’s lips tightened. “Rules are rules. Library cards are privileges, not rights. I warned him twice. He parks his huge bike on the pavement, not in the parking lot. Then, he just strolls in with his leather cut, all tattooed up, sunglasses hanging from his collar, acting like deadlines don’t apply to him.
The entire children’s section stares. And when I tell him he owes thirty-two dollars and seventy-five cents, he smiles—” she paused, nostrils flaring like the smile itself had unsettled her “—and says he’ll get to it another time. ”
Ro slapped her thigh. “A smile? Uh-uh. This is a man who knows exactly how dangerous he looks and leans into it. And you’re about to come at him with fines?”
“Girl.” I nodded again. “If it is that serious, I will give you the $32, just so you don’t get killed.”
Cadence shook her head. “It’s not just about the money. It is the symbolism of it all. He thinks he doesn’t have to follow the rules.”
Ro picked up her glass of champagne up. “But he doesn’t have to follow the rules. From your description, he probably breaks the law every damn day.”
“I believe it. He’s such a troublemaker.
And he brings all of his friends into the library too,” Cadence rolled her eyes.
“Every single time. Six or seven other big men, all cut from the same leather and jeans—ink crawling up their throats, boots heavy enough to crack the tile, the smell of oil and weed smoke like they brought the road inside with them. They wait around the circulation desk, taking up space, like they’re daring me to tell their supposed leader no. ”
A low hum went around our little trio.
Even Ro stopped joking for a beat.
I said the thing that needed to be said. “So. . .he’s the leader of a biker gang?”
“Probably.”
Ro shrieked. “Leave that man alone!”
I took a sip of champagne. “What the hell is he checking out that he’s getting late dues on?”
Ro snorted, “Probably books about how to hide bodies.”
Cadence shook her head. “Actually, he’s checking out children’s picture books.”
I blinked.
Cadence’s voice softened against her will. “The books are for his niece. His sister passed last year. He’s raising her now.”
The words landed heavy and tender.
For a second I saw him in my mind: this massive man with hands scarred from engines or fights, sitting in a chair too small for him, holding open a bright-colored book with talking animals so a little girl could see the pictures.
“Aww.” My heart ached. “Seriously. I’ll pay his dues.”
Ro fanned herself. “See? That’s exactly how they get you. They look like hell on wheels, then they sit down with a kid on their lap and every woman in the county ovulates at once.”
Cadence huffed, cheeks pinker than her usual librarian flush. “I don’t care if he reads Goodnight Moon in seven voices. He still owes dues and he has to pay them. No one else.”
Ro leaned in closer, lowering her voice into a mock-ominous growl.
“Cadence. Biker President. Psycho. Probably dangerous as hell. And you’re about to look him in the eye and say, ‘Sir, you cannot check out Clifford the Big Red Dog until you pay your thirty-two seventy-five.’ You’ll get your head mounted on his handlebars. ”
Cadence rolled her eyes. “I’ve got mace.”
I choked on my champagne. “Mace? Baby, mace is just going to piss him off. He’ll take it like perfume and ask you what brand.”
“Everyone is afraid of him on the staff.” Cadence touched her chest. “I’m not. I’m going to teach him what his mama didn’t.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth as my laughter fought with my nerves. Something about the way Cadence told this story—it wasn’t just annoyance. There was a pulse under her words, quick and unwanted, the way a woman talks about a man who unsettles her in more ways than one.
Meanwhile, every time the conversation sharpened—Cadence muttering about the biker, Ro shrieking at her about clearing the fines—a Helper slid by to pour us more champagne without a word, as if our drama required extra hydration.
Ro looked to me. “So basically we’re going to need to pick some nice black dresses for Cadence’s funeral.”
“Yep.” I took a sip of my champagne. “We’ll make sure we look real nice for our girl.”
Ro raised on finger. “I might even go up there and sing Amazing Grace.”
I chuckled. “Girl, don’t do that to me. We’ll already be sad.”
Cadence cut her eyes at Ro. “If anyone will be in a casket, it will be him.”
We laughed, including Cadence.
I turned to Ro. “How are you doing these days?”
“I finally finished the last payment of the twins’ tuition. It feels good to have the money to do it, but sad that you know. . .”
I gave her a warm smile. “Sad that they’re going?”
“Yep. They’re leaving me.” Ro let out a long sigh. “The house will close at the end of the month.”
Cadence asked, “How is the condo hunting?”
Ro shrugged. “My old ass has been touring these fancy downtown places—rooftop pools with bars, gyms with eucalyptus towels, lobbies that smell like money laundering—and they’re all infested with twenty-two-year-old app tech goblins.”
I grinned.
“They sit in beanbags with their laptops and call it work. I feel like if I move downtown I’m going to be the cranky aunt telling them to take their shoes off in the building’s communal podcast room.
” She laughed, but the laugh had a loose stitch.
“I think I’ll. . .be alone down there. I already feel too old and crusty.
Plus, empty nesting keeps hiding in closets and jumping out at me. ”
“You’re not old and crusty.” Without thinking, I put my arms around her. “And empty nesting will end up being an amazing adventure this year. You’re going to have so many amazing hot sexy stories to tell us. Plus, we’ll be there the whole time. You’ll never be alone.”
She leaned in and let me press my cheek to hers. She was all soft warmth, coconut oil, and woman.
“We can help you find a place that feels like your new home,” I murmured. “And the twins love you so much. They’ll visit all the time.”