Place an assortment of high-maintenance female friends together in their favorite trendy hair salon and the sexy gossip alone curled hair. (Was it Dorothy Parker who said; âthe only woman without a past was Eve?â)
Add a team of hell-raising hairstylists to this huddle and swapped sexual recipes had locker room banter and steam beat.
Take a recent a victim of this bevy of beauties combined cookery -- a butt of their jokes -- and the end result was a man on a mission with lusty plans of a counter-attack dancing in his head.
It wasnât the first time Gabe eyed the lighted hair salon marquee with amusement. HEAD HUNTERS was apropos.
He fumbled an attempt at silencing the door chimes that warned the stylistsâ of âincoming wounded.â
According to his dark- haired, proudly Italian American beauty, Roberta, tact was the ability to make them feel at home, even when you wished they were. But only a âblondeâ would dare enter twenty minutes before closing time. Especially when her girls had cut out early, leaving the harried hairstylist to work all by her lonesome, so they wouldnât miss the tailgate parties before Jimmy Buffetâs concert.
Luckily, the curtain of black beads never parted and produced a curious head. Roberta wouldnât have heard him anyway; not with her blow dryer roaring. Like Ragu, she was in there all right. On a track-lighted mirrored stage. Performing magical transformations. Pumping up her hydraulic chair, along with the ego of her last customer. Gabe crinkled up his nose at the toxic mix of lingering potions: hairspray, bleach, tint, peroxide, and something reminiscent of rotten eggs.
Chrome and glass shelves in the reception room held an arsenal of hair and tanning bed products. He plucked up a bottle of sun lotion the girls raved about. FIRE possessed a magic ingredient called Tingle. An interesting, heat activated brew, that not only dilated surface blood vessels and generated tingles, but gave the skin a temporary flush, or sunburned appearance.
Behind the high, shiny black desk, Gabe quickly set the twenty-minute wall timer on Bed Four. He removed his shoes and socks. Tip-toeing down the side hall to the end , he quietly closed the last door behind him, shucked suit coat, tie, shirt, trousers, socks, jockeys, and he applied the magic potion.
Other than a funhouse mirror-maze he couldnât find his way out of as a kid, in a hair salon, it was impossible to escape your reflection. Not bad for forty-eight, Gabe assessed while he rubbed lotion on his still lean belly. Roberta loved to play with his dark brown, silver-shot hair . . . even though he was folically challenged. She liked to say he was tall, dark, and hands . . . all over her. Claimed women would kill for his long lashes and gorgeous blue eyes. Flattery would get her everywhere. Eh, at least he had nice year-long tan. . . even on his ass and cock. Complements of his sweet young head hunter.
Stretched out on the coffin-like bed, he was reminded of Dracula as he drew the lid down. Seconds later, a loud click jarred him, and bright ultra violet lights had him shutting his eyes. Toasty warmth began to loosen work-accumulated tension in his neck and shoulders like a half-drained snifter of Cognac before a blazing fireplace. In fact, these relaxing twenty-minute sessions were a much needed shot of sunshine in middle of an over-long, freezing cold winter. The pleasant fiery âtingleâ ingredient kicked-in and he flicked on the side fan. Like a gentle ocean breeze, it stirred up the coconut scent of the concoction and cooled his hot skin. Soft jazz wafted down from ceiling speakers and melted away surplus cares. Gabeâs mind drifted back to the last time he and Roberta had sex.
It all started with an early morning phone call at his office. He could hear blow dryers running and shrill female laughter in the background, although Roberta still managed to use her most seductive, and seductively effective voice. In short, she needed him naked in bed, ready, willing, and rock hard before she arrived at his apartment. And the second he heard his bedroom door open? He was to spread his legs wide. His breathing had kicked into high gear and she chose that particular tounge-tied moment to hang up. No doubt she was satisfied the remainder of his workday would be spent anticipating what every red-blooded male considered their favorite pastime. And sheâd been right. The hands on the clock above his desk couldnât have moved fast enough.
When Roberta finally did open his bedroom door that night, before he could blink, she ripped open the snaps to her baggy black hairstylist smock, revealing a sexy French maidâs uniform. A frilly white blouse exposed the half moon tops of her voluptuous breasts and, a ruffled loincloth of an apron barely covered garters to her smoky black thigh highs. Staring coyly at the ceiling, she pinned a white cap atop her long, raven black spiral curls, making her mouth-watering dĂ©colletĂ© jiggle enticingly. She then reached under the lampshade, and the room went black. A long matchstick was struck, illuminating her lovely face. With a slow, sensual sashay about the room, she lighted musk-scented candles until her pleasing form was bathed in soft, flickering glows. On a deep, bosom-expanding inhalation, she blew out the taper with her hell red lips, and as if in answer to her fondest wish, his thighs fell wide open. Her sultry, dark gaze dropped from his expectant face to his proud prong.
